


The Knight of Fall

by Wicker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, F/F, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Magic, Middle Ages, Multi, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Starvation, Suicide Attempt, Swords & Sorcery, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2486534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicker/pseuds/Wicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gadreel’s home kingdom is embroiled in a civil war, which allowed him to escape and travel west to Winchester, a small mountain kingdom that has passed through many rulers in the past hundred years. It is currently ruled by a small house of storied huntsmen, although Gadreel knows none of this, having been imprisoned for more than a decade. He struggles to abide by the knight’s code, despite his desperate state.</p><p>The Princes of Winchester reluctantly accept him as a companion on their quest to save Sam’s life from a terrible curse, and to save their kingdom from becoming a overrun by opposing armies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seventh Son

**Author's Note:**

> Charlemagne's code of Chivalry:  
> To fear God and maintain His Church  
> To serve the liege lord in valor and faith  
> To protect the weak and defenseless  
> To give succor to widows and orphans  
> To refrain from the wanton giving of offence  
> To live by honour and for glory  
> To despise pecuniary reward  
> To fight for the welfare of all  
> To obey those placed in authority  
> To guard the honor of fellow knights  
> To eschew unfairness, meanness and deceit  
> To keep faith  
> At all times to speak the truth  
> To persevere to the end in any enterprise begun  
> To respect the honor of women  
> Never to refuse a challenge from an equal  
> Never to turn the back upon a foe.
> 
> (Realm Map- WIP)  
> 

Gadreel lay in the tiny, abandoned barn, having consumed the only fish he'd been able to harvest from the river. He had done it with a stone, savagely, and had nearly wept at how good the flesh tasted once roasted over a fire. The world seemed so much larger than it had before his ten-year penance, but he knew it wasn't the world that had expanded so much as himself having been diminished. His stomach growled, already protesting that it needed more. 

He lay with his hand over his eyes, doubting he could last the winter in such a place as this. The chill of snow was nearly upon this land, and his shoes were ill-fitted and too thin. Perhaps the cold would kill him, peacefully in his sleep; he was melancholy enough to consider that as a mercy. The barn would make a fitting cairn for his bones. 

Distant shouting echoed, accompanied by a clash of blades, and the thin knight sat up, head tilted. It sounded as though a skirmish was occurring nearby, probably involving the nearby band of brigands who'd shown no interest in him the day before. He stood up and exited the small low building, picking up a stone that fit comfortingly in his hand- the same he'd used to stun the fish. 

The road lay across the river on a rise, and he bounded across it lightly. Fear roiled in his chest- he had no armor and only a rock; what could he hope to do against swordsmen? From what he'd seen of them they'd been a disjointed, cowardly lot, bereft of honor- but he was still without even a breastplate, and might as well be running into the fight naked. 

He burst through the trees to find five men and one woman, dressed in the clothes of a noble house which Gadreel couldn't identify, of heather gray and black.  Two more of their number were unmoving on the ground. One was mounted, pale, and hunched over on his saddle as though wounded. The eight bandits had the advantage of the high ground, but were not on horseback. They advanced on the one in front, whose eyes were incandescent with rage. The woman near him knocked the knees out from under a thug, who went down, only to be cudgeled to death by the swift descent of her staff. 

Gadreel launched his rock at the back of a highwayman engaging a younger man of the noble party, enjoying, despite himself, how he dropped to his knees and clutched his head. He turned to see the beggar-knight that felled him. 

The young man he had been about to fight stepped forward and decapitated the kneeling bandit with a single stroke, which seemed against the knight's code. Gadreel decided to overlook the matter, and deal with the robber who had turned to him, woodsman's axe raised. Gadreel hadn't fought unarmed since he was a page, and even then he had had a banner-pole for some measure of defense. He dove forward, binding the man's arm above his head and grabbing the handle of the axe. 

There were very few honorable choices given to him in this era of misfortune. He grabbed a dagger from the man's belt and stabbed him in the back. then let him drop to the ground, his dying scream a curse in a tongue unknown to Gadreel. He picked up the axe from him and moved to dispatch the last man, but when he turned to run he did not pursue him further. 

The man who seemed in charge of the little noble band wiped his sword on his cloak, dirtying the worn fabric, and sheathed it. It looked as though he had dispatched three in the time it had taken to defeat the last of the men. He then muttered at the woman, who was looking down sadly at one of their fallen men. Her eyes darted over to Gadreel, and she tapped the leader on the shoulder, and gestured to him.

He was at a loss of what to do next. He dropped the dagger and axe at his feet and bowed deeply. 

"Allright, cut that out. What are you, a beggar-assassin?" 

He looked at the ground as he straightened his spine, trying to not allow the man's harsh manner upset him. "I am a landless knight." 

"You speak strangely," said the young man who'd been so quick to behead the man on the ground. "Are you of Athos?" 

Gadreel nodded, but backed away a step when their swords sprang out again. "I am there no longer, please. I wish only to restore my honor." 

"We've dealt with your kind before, our house won't be manipulated further." the young man who'd decapitated his opponent seemed ready to advance and gut him.

"I do not wish to fight you, and I have nowhere for a home, not even Athos." 

"He's exactly like Cas," the woman remarked. 

"Castiel?" Gadreel blinked, noticing the shock of vibrant red hair from under her hood. 

"You know him?" said their leader. He was blond, well groomed, and seemed in a state of constant vigilance. 

"I.. I know _of_ him. He is.. honorable but not welcome in our home either."

"What's your name?" he stepped towards him. The pale, lanky man on horseback had a coughing fit and the leader's expression faltered, worn with worry.

Gadreel knew he couldn't use his own. It was too thoroughly stained. "Ezekiel." 

"Allright, well.. Ezekiel. You're welcome to these brigands' things, and any coin they might have had." 

"Sir, may I have your name? May I.. seek employment at your house?" 

The redhead spoke up, somewhat impertinently. "Your highness, we lost four men just today, and we've got to make Lumley by nightfall." Gadreel decided that he liked her. 

Their leader raised his hand to her shoulder and squeezed briefly. "I am Prince Dean of Winchester. On the horse is my brother Sam, this lady is called Charlie the Bradbury, and she is, in some aspects, a man. That there is Adam, and Garth is behind the horse."

"Well met." Gadreel bowed. 

"Okay, kneel." Dean really didn't have a flair for the formal. He drew out his sword and waited. 

Gadreel obeyed, taking a knee in front of the Prince.

"Ezekiel. Do you swear Fealty to my brother and I?" Curiously, Dean didn't ask him to swear to his house, or his throne, but to _them_. He rested his sword on Gadreel's shoulder, and he could smell the blood still on it. 

"I will serve you both for the rest of my life." 

Dean blinked, an eyebrow raised. "Now... you'll travel in house colors if you travel with us." Dean gestured to a fallen comrade. "Please dress quickly, we're in a rush." 

 

\---

 

Sam observed from atop his horse that Ezekiel was a very quiet companion. He kept pace with them, eyes following the conversation of their companions as they spoke in turn. Their misfortunes were many, and they were more than a day behind due to the loss of their horses in the night. He knew Dean was worried about the deserted town and the way all but one horse had been stolen in the night. It was a trek borne out of desperation, at an inopportune time for their kingdom. His fevers had gotten worse over the last few nights, and he knew that it was Dean's desperation, rather than his own will, that guided them to the witch. 

Meg was someone that everyone with any sense feared, so of course she was treated as an old friend by Dean and Castiel. Sam knew her well, but they'd also tried to kill each other years before, so he doubted that he could ever trust her completely. Maybe it was their long history that made Dean more fond of the witch, or maybe it was that he could trust her to act in her own self-interest. While that didn’t make her a good person by any standard, she was predictable. Reliable folk were difficult to find.

The new knight had his manners and wits about him, but looked somewhat fatigued after only a league with the walking pace set by Dean. Sam suspected that he had been ill recently, or even starving. He had a large frame that his clothing hung from, tabbard billowing around his bones. He also seemed to feel that his helmet was too small, carrying it under his arm as they walked. Ezekiel had smiled as he shed his shoes, and thrown them down into the stream before pulling on Ash's old boots. 

Sam had said a silent prayer for the dead, and did so again at sunset. Ezekiel surely couldn't hear his words muttered under his breath, but joined him with head bowed at the churchyard outside Lumley, where they would spend the evening. For someone unshorn and clearly unbathed, he had mannerisms that were entirely that of a nobleman. 

Night fell in Lumley, and Dean was welcomed at the grand house of the local duke, who agreed to serve them a meal and provide them horses.  Sam had troubles staying conscious after dark, so didn't really care much to notice the lord of the house or his servants. But he did eat a little before he slept, which he really only did to keep his brother happy.

 

\---

 

Charlie informed the kitchen that the six of them would dine together, and sat at Dean's side, drinking her wine with gusto. Dean looked at the contents of her cup, was reminded of blood, and requested mead instead. 

Ezekiel sat across from the elder Prince, worrying at his dinner. Dean knew when someone was terribly hungry, and had to admire the man's strength to not dive into his plate like a pig at a trough. Dean had thought on the road that the knight was a bit older than him, but now estimated that he was perhaps only eight or nine years older at the most- his gaunt face and scraggly facial hair made him appear much older. 

Charlie was one of Dean's favorite people. She was a truly kind soul, and cleverer than any of them, even Sam. She made a concerted effort to draw out Ezekiel with her questions, without being unkind. 

"Ezekiel, you seem like you might not have eaten much lately, isn't the pheasant good?" She gave him options on how to answer, and he could either reply with his recent history, or comment on the meal at hand.

"Yes, it's very well prepared. I am.. not a very well-versed chef."

"Alone for a bit, then." Dean watched Ezekiel avert his eyes.  

"Yes, your highness. I've been on foot since leaving Athos." 

The page, Garth, whistled. "That's more than fifty leagues."

"Are you being pursued?" He gestured with the legbone of his pheasant. 

"No, but to be perfectly open with you, my liege... I am not pursued because the kingdom is in a shambles. Factions are murdering each other, and it's not.. seemly. Farms are being burned, by next year there will surely be a famine." 

"There already is," Charlie replied.

Sam chose that moment to begin to snore in his chair. Adam stifled a guffaw. 

Ezekiel did not speak further of his home, but everyone at the table knew well enough about the war to their east. Dean looked over at his brother, appearing blissful in his exhaustion. He doubted Sam would live through another week without Meg's help, and he couldn't possibly deal with the business of the kingdom without Sam nearby. Without his brother to assist him with running their small kingdom, his coronation would be hollow and the land would be split between their neighbors in a bloody war. Dean ran it over in his mind again and drank deeply. 

A messenger arrived and bowed, presenting Dean with a small folded parchment. He pulled it open and frowned deeply. Charlie looked over his shoulder, then put down her glass.

Dean cleared his throat. "Adam, Garth, Charlie, I need you to go ready your horses and return tonight. I'll go arrange for you to borrow some men as an escort."

"What's happened?" Garth looked like he'd swallowed a stone.

"Refugees are being slaughtered inside our borders by Athean soldiers." and all of them, save the napping younger prince, looked at him.

Ezekiel nearly choked on his potato. "I would.. if you would allow me, highness, I will assist in fighting the Athean forces within your borders."

"Why?" Dean frowned at him. "Aren't they your people?" 

"I call no man a brother who harms a fleeing opponent, or pursues their wives and children."

Dean raised his eyebrow. "It's appreciated, but you'll stay with Sam and I." He didn't think he really trusted the strange knight much at the moment. He seemed prone to making grand statements, and that meant he thought he was brave, and men that thought they were brave were inherently dangerous. 

"We'll be off, then." Charlie kissed Dean on the cheek and stood. He felt himself blushing.

Ezekiel alone stood while she left the table, and Dean noticed that Charlie smiled at him. Garth and Adam left with her, his youngest brother almost swaggering as he held the door. Adam was always over-eager to leave the shadow of his elder brothers and try to claim some glory for himself. 

Sam let out a small snort in the sudden quiet.

"I know it is impudent of me to ask, sire.. but do you not.. treat women in a chivalrous manner?"

Dean had an urge to reach over and slap Ezekiel, but suppressed it. "As I mentioned before, Zeke. She's not really a lady."

"Well... she's a very attractive man, then."

Dean appreciated that this was his terrible attempt at a joke. "Hitting closer to the mark now."

"She.. lays with other women?"

"Wow, Zeke, you're quick." Dean finished his mead. Sam had stopped snoring.

Ezekiel went back to picking at his potatoes.

"We're going to be doing a lot of riding tomorrow. Do you know your way around a horse?"

He blinked and nodded. "Yes. Doubly so if I have a spear."

Dean shrugged. "I'll try to have Sam up by Dawn. He's sleeping a lot lately."

"Sire... he's dying."

Dean's temper was not well-contained these days. He reached and grabbed Ezekiel's ill-fitted tunic. The knight did not fight, or even raise a finger as he was shaken. "He's going to be fine," Dean growled, "We'll get to the madwoman's hut by tomorrow afternoon."

"I meant no offense. I apologize." He looked genuinely upset. Dean knew he was right, too. 

He let him go, regretting the outburst instantly. Ezekiel almost fell backwards onto the bench, steadying himself with the table. They both looked down at their food until Dean folded his napkin and set it on his picked-over plate. 

"Come on, Sammy. Time to sleep in a real bed." He patted Sam on the shoulder, rousing him instantly. For a moment it looked as though Sam would reach for a blade, but then he saw Dean and calmed.

Dean helped him to stand and held his shoulder as he ascended the stairs. They would share a room so that Dean could keep an eye on his brother's nightmares. 

When he looked back down at the dining table, he saw Ezekiel had pulled Sam's nearly untouched plate over and was eating that too. 

 

 --

 

It was getting difficult for Sam to notice much in the course of a day. During the night his head pounded and his fever soared, and his dreams were crowded and noisy. It was a relief to lay down, an unspeakable bliss to not have to worry about his brother and their kingdom, until he woke screaming from his nightmares to find Dean holding him again, telling him it wasn't real. 

This night was not unexceptional in the nature of the dreams that plagued Sam. Since his curse, he had nearly thrown himself out of bed screaming every night. However, this night a new figure stood next to Dean, looking down on the brothers with a worried and disapproving expression. 

"Get out." They were the first words that Sam had spoken to Ezekiel. 

 

\--

 

Gadreel rode his horse behind Sam on the road, and let Dean take the front. He kept an eye on the younger prince, but didn't speak to him besides an apology for the mistake he'd made the night before by entering the room when Sam screamed. Sam's lips had thinned and he'd looked away, obviously embarrassed.

The kingdom of Winchester was incredibly hilly, and most of their route took them through wooded areas dotted with abandoned homesteads and failed farms. They rounded a bend and crossed a well-built bridge, and then Dean led them off the path, headed up along the stream.

A house had been built into the mountain under a granite overhang, less than a minute from the main road. Dean dismounted and so did Gadreel, and Sam attempted it, but both men had to help him lest he crash to the ground. He managed to stand on his own, taking Dean's shoulder in his gloved hand.

At the door, Dean knocked, and Sam murmured something before crumpling to the ground. The prince turned and bent over his brother, pulling him up. "Sam. Sam. We need you awake, now."  Gadreel knelt to help Dean get him off the ground, despite his lack of muscle. 

The door opened. A short woman with dark eyes and darker hair looked on the scene with bemusement. "Hello, Dean. Is Castiel with you?"

"Meg, no, damnit, I didn't bring your boyfriend." 

"Well, who's this? I'll make do." 

Gadreel realized that she was looking back at him as he stared at her.

She radiated dangerous power, and he wasn't at all sure how he knew that, but the hair on his arms was standing up. 

"Damnit, Meg, help Sam. Please." Dean growled at her.

"You always know how to speak to a lady." She quirked an odd smile and stood out of the way. "Get him in here and shove him on the bed." 

Dean and Gadreel walked Sam through the doorway sideways and placed him on the bed in the low hut. Moss hung from the roof and brushed Gadreel's head. The place smelled like roasting herbs, cooking, and rot. It turned his stomach, but he kept from commenting.

"Who's this then?" Meg asked again, standing in the middle of her hut, hands on her hips. The tables and shelves in the place were strewn with bones, curiosities, bowls and dried herbs. 

"I'm Ezekiel." 

"Hmn. If you say so. I can tell you don't like me, Ezekiel." 

"M'lady, I mean no disrespect." 

"I won't tolerate it. Get out, seventh son." The door creaked as it blew open behind him, and Gadreel wasn't sure that it had been latched, just that his skin had begun to crawl.

“I’m not..” he began to argue, then thought better of it. “As you wish.” He went outside to stand with the horses. 

 

\--

 

"Wow, and I thought Castiel was full of righteous gasses." Meg poked the coals in her fireplace. 

"Sam's ill, can you fix him and we'll talk about him later?" 

Her chicken, Clarence, poked around on the floor of the hut, clucking as she glared at Dean. She set her poker down. "He's not ill, he's cursed." 

"Cursed how?" 

She rolled her eyes and sighed, pulling a cleaned human rib off the shelf. "How should I know how he got himself this problem?" 

"Okay, how do we fix it." 

"He needs to be anchored by another. Uh.. a "profound bond" if you want to use your boyfriend's words." 

Dean sighed, looking at his brother. "Okay, I'll do it." 

"Nope." 

"What do you mean, nope?" 

She tossed the rib on the coals and smirked. "You're already bonded to another. If we kill Castiel, I can bind you to Sam. Sound good?" 

Dean looked at the blackening bone in the fireplace. "No." 

"I didn't think it would. Well, here's my solution. It's not pretty but it'll work." She pulled the bone out with her hand before the char could sink into the marrow. 

"What are you doing, witch?" 

"I'm making a bribe." 

"Why?" 

"Because we can either bond Sam to the man outside, or to me." 

"You?" He was incredulous.

She laughed. "I knew you wouldn't consider it." 

"So they'd be.. like.. me and Cas?" 

"Nobody's going to be like you and Cas, until the stars fall." She drew in the dirt floor with the rib. 

Dean hid his smile behind his hand. "So... just their lives bonded, nothing else?" 

"You mean, am I going to make your brother fall in love with the shambles we have outside?" 

"Well.. yeah." 

"No, I can't make that happen." 

Dean shrugged. "Fine, let's do it." 

She nodded and stood up with the bone. "Bring him back inside. This is for him." 

 

\--

 

Gadreel ducked back inside the little house when called, head scraping the lintel above the door. Both Meg and Dean were looking at him hungrily.

He cleared his throat. "Yes?"

Dean gestured towards his brother on the bed. "We need your help to fix Sam."

He looked down at Meg as she smirked up at him. "I need to bind you together."

He tried to not look suspicious or displeased, and failed. "And what does that entail?"

"You need to stay near him for a fortnight. Then it's not _too_ terrible. You'll share your vigor."

"I don't know if you can see well in this dark room, but I am not.. in good health."

"Meg says you're healthy enough, and I trust her. do you trust me?" Dean had his hands on his hips, playing with the pommel of his sword. 

"Yes, your highness." Gadreel looked down.

Meg held out the blackened bone in her hand. It was still smoking. "Here. It's a gift."

Gadreel reached out and took the bone, and saw Abner standing next to the witch. He breathed in deeply and stared. Abner smiled softly and shrugged. He was still in his prisoner's tunic, his form slight and beard long and untrimmed. Gadreel was aware that his hand was shaking. He tore his eyes over to Meg, mouth opening and closing a few times. "How have you done this to him?" 

She shrugged. "He's just your memory, not mine. We can't see whoever you have there." 

"This.. this isn't his bone, is it?" He couldn't believe that Abner's corpse could have gotten to this backwater kingdom before he did. 

"Oh, no. That was the bone of.." she looked over at Dean. "Of a very bad man. The rib just lets you see your... dead fellow. Whenever you want to. You can keep it." 

Gadreel put the bone in his pouch, glancing up as Abner faded. 

"Ezekiel." 

Gadreel rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"Zeke." 

He realized Dean was talking to him, suddenly. "Sorry, sire. I'm sorry." 

"... it's fine, go over there and do the thing, save yon prince's life." Dean pointed.

Meg shuffled over to sit on Sam's thighs as he lay on her bed.  Gadreel felt himself blush.  She looked back at him. "Oh, not like there's room for that in here." 

He walked over and knelt next to the bed, ignoring her remark. "What do I need to do?" 

She cut Sam's hand and then let it pool in his palm. "You'll be drinking that." 

The knight blinked and looked over at Dean, but he didn't seem perturbed. When her knife darted across his palm he flinched a little, more surprised than hurt. 

Then she poured Sam's blood into a cup, and Gadreel's too. Sam she had to hold in place for a little bit, which made her sigh in frustration as she shook his palm. Gadreel obliged her by holding the cup under his hand while he bled.  Meg smiled and patted his head, then got up to grab some black ash from a jar on a shelf, and a pinch of something that looked like river algae, and added it into the mixture. 

"Whenever you like, drink about half." 

Gadreel lifted it to his lips, hesitated at the smell, and then took two quick gulps. It heated in his mouth and burned like vodka on the way down. He choked and coughed, but ultimately swallowed. 

Meg stood. "Alright, Dean, help me get this down Sam's throat." She tapped Sam’s cheek and Dean helped him to sit up, feeling him jerk a little as he struggled and failed to wake up fully. Dean shook his shoulders, and then held his nose shut until Sam opened his mouth, and hugged his brother around his chest so he couldn't thrash while Meg poured it into his mouth.  

Sam opened his eyes and blinked at her soon enough in recognition, choking a little. "What're you doing?" He asked as he glanced over his shoulder at his brother.

"You're going to live, Sam. Don't spit it out." 

Sam blinked and looked at his brother, then licked his lips clean. "Tastes awful."

Gadreel had the sense that he was falling when he blinked, and gripped the floor. 

Meg perked up. "Oh, there he goes." 

He looked up at her, floor tilting like a ship in hard waves. Sam looked at Gadreel and saw his bloody hand, matching his own. 

"You bound us together?" The young prince grit his teeth. "But I thought. I thought it would be you, Dean."

"It had to be Zeke, Sam. It had to." 

Gadreel flopped on the floor and shuddered weakly. His eyes slid shut and he heard nothing more. 

 

 

 


	2. Widdershins

When Gadreel awoke, he had his hand bound to Sam's: Left hand palms together, in a reverse handshake. The leather ties were tight, but not enough to make his fingers tingle. The knight could see that the prince was sleeping deeply with his right arm arched to throw shade over his face, nestled in a bundle of strange woman's clothing. The wagon bumped and creaked and a chicken clucked.

The scene before him started to make a little bit of sense. Prince Sam and himself were laid down in the rear of a cart to recover from the witch's spell. Gadreel had little experience with magics besides the knowledge of a few mystic sigils and ancient alphabets, and the binding of hands seemed important, so he dared not risk disturbing how they were anchored to each other. Fortunately, both he and the prince were not left-handed. Gadreel's shoulder ached from having his arm crossed over his body to meet Sam's palm. He rolled a little, noticing he was on top of a crate and a bedroll. 

The cart rumbled and rocked and the knight had a little time to think on his state. He felt more tired than he had before, despite his improved diet and the warmth of his clothing. He assumed that he was sharing some of what Sam's curse had wrought on the Prince, though he still knew nothing of the nature of the curse itself. Looking at Sam provided few clues. He hadn't shaved his face in at least a few days, and looked like he might need a hour of bathing, at least. Gadreel hadn't had the luxury of soap, but had taken advantage of the icy streams criss-crossing the kingdom to wake himself in the morning. Sam's lack of care spoke more for his mental state than anything else, as he surely could have had a servant to help him at the least. His fingernails were untrimmed; one or two showing signs of being nibbled on.

His face, even in a restful state, held an expression of slight pain. His brow, when Sam's arm shifted to push his long black hair out of the way, was in a permanent state of concentration, and his lips were thinly stretched in a small frown. His hand twitched in Gadreel's, and he laid back down as flat as he could, away from his slumbering partner.

He reached awkwardly into his pouch and produced the charred rib bone, unable to deny that touching it was intensely fulfilling. He wondered if he was bewitched, or if it was just that he missed his lost companion so terribly. He closed his fingers around the rib. Abner was sitting at his side, in between the two bodies, just touching Gadreel's leg.

That in itself answered several questions. Abner could touch him, it seemed, but didn't have any power or weight behind the contact. His thigh lightly pressed against his friend's side without any force, though it should have had more weight behind it. The knight found himself a little sad at that.

He spoke to him, softly, keeping his voice beneath the volume at which Sam could have easily heard, and used the language of Enoch, which was not widely understood.

"I'm sorry."

Abner smiled a little. "Brother, there is nothing I must forgive of you."

It was the sound of his voice, rather than his words, that brought Gadreel to the brink of tears. "I miss you terribly."

His ghostly friend nodded. "I am happy that you've escaped."

Gadreel wiped his own face with the back of his hand. Abner looked well, almost as he did as a free man. He was as corporeal as a ray of light, but he looked more at ease than Gadreel thought a dead man should. After a long while of staring, he put the rib back in his pouch. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam wasn't happy when he woke. The cart jarred to a halt and he sat up weakly, pulling the tattered sailcloth that covered the witch's cart. It looked as though all of Meg's worldly possessions were in the cart with them, including her chicken. Red leaves fell, mostly onto Ezekiel, who blinked and sat up with Sam, shivering in the crisp air. It would have been a perfect day, if not for the circumstances. 

Sam and Ezekiel both looked at their bound hands.

"Well at least it's not my good hand," Sam shrugged a little, still not pleased with this Meg-addled solution to his predicament. He shifted. "This is going to be unpleasant." 

Ezekiel said nothing. 

"Hello, lovelies." Meg's head emerged over the side of the cart, and Dean rode his horse closer to overlook the pair, leaning on the horn of his saddle.

"Meg. Can we.." He shook Ezekiel's hand at her.

"Oh no, Moose. You have to stay that way for at least a few days."

"I have to piss."

Ezekiel turned his head to Sam with an appalled expression. Sam rolled his eyes and started to scoot out of the cart, only a little perturbed that Ezekiel tried to help him, when it seemed the knight was just as infirm as he. 

Meg giggled. "You don't need both hands for that. Or if you are that well-endowed, maybe the seventh son can help." 

Ezekiel looked to her, squinting. "I'm not the seventh son." 

"Oh, burying his name at a crossroads doesn't make you the sixth, honey. From where I'm sitting I can see plenty of things that you are" she smirked at him. Ezekiel frowned deeply and shook his head as he stood up, legs unsteady on the ground. 

Dean was plainly watching he and Sam from high on his horse, concerned. Thankfully, Sam managed to walk without any help. The warmth of the sun actually felt good on his face, too. 

Walking was a little awkward as they were essentially facing each other. Zeke crossed his arm over his chest and walked closer to Sam until they reached the treeline, then turned away for Sam to do what he needed to. 

Sam looked off into the distance as he went, trying to figure out where they were, without admitting to Dean that he had no idea how long he'd slept. On a ridge, more than a mile away, he saw a dog or a wolf pacing. He squinted as it stilled, head turned towards him, and then stood on its hind legs as a man. 

"Dean!" He tucked himself away. Ezekiel jumped at the loudness of his voice. 

"What?" His brother's horse trotted over. 

Sam pointed. "Creature on that ridge."

Dean's eyes flicked into the far distance. "It.. looks like just some guy. It's too far, I can't tell." 

"It was walking on four legs like a dog a moment ago," Sam gulped. Ezekiel turned to look along with Dean. 

Dean sighed. "We better move fast just in case."

Meg got back up on her horse, without much complaining. "Those walls aren't at all close to what they were when I first came here." 

"We know." Sam said, feeling dizzy. He and Ezekiel got back into the cart and Zeke laid down, looking pale and tired. He laid down and was asleep before the wagon rounded the first turn. 

Meg giggled and the wagon started moving again, Clarence, the chicken, clucked in dismay at Sam's foot when it tapped against her cage. Sam found himself drifting off, despite what he thought he might have seen through the forest. Maybe it had always been a man, just crawling along the ground for something he'd lost. Sam doubted it, but had no energy to waste worrying about it. He wondered why Zeke had buried his brother's name, and if that was like disowning a person in their land. He'd have to ask Cas when they made it home. He drifted off to sleep covered by the sailcloth.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

Their path  wound down into the rare flat lands of Winchester hold, no longer crowded in by trees. If Dean had been with a lady, he might have pointed out the lovely fall colors of the leaves, and dallied to make her a crown of them. He wondered why he was thinking of Lisa so often now. Maybe it was that his current reality was filled only with the responsibilities of running their small kingdom. Maybe it was Cas being ill, and asking Dean to leave him alone while he pretended to be busy with the rebellion in Athos. Castiel’s illness was something that he couldn’t solve, and made his lover withdraw into a fragile, pained shell. Dean felt needy and selfish for wanting anything from his beloved. He missed the romantic simplicity he'd had with Lisa. Perhaps that was the real root of why he had postponed his own coronation indefinitely. It was childish and he knew it.  

Dean asked Meg a few pointed questions while they made their camp.  She had traded barbs with him on the road, which was a source of begrudging amusement for Dean, and helped him to pass the time quickly. 

"You kept the chicken? Even _Cas_ thought you'd eat her." 

Meg shrugged. "Never gonna be that hungry." 

".. yeah, okay. How come you came back with me?" 

She sat down on the saddle that Dean had just put down over a fallen log. "Nothing better to do." 

"Come on, Meg, tell the truth for once." 

"Hey, I tell the truth quite often, actually. Too bad your ears aren't keen enough."

"Just tell me the _real_ reason." Dean huffed, unloading a bag from the cart that had some of their food in it. Zeke was snoring. Sam's eyes were open, but he just shrugged at him, saying nothing. His hand was still tied to the other man so he had an excellent excuse for staying in the cart, and not helping them make camp. 

Meg sighed. "Things have been heating up. Sam tried to close the walls down, didn't he?" 

Dean tilted his head. "I didn't say that." 

"He wouldn't off himself for anything less, unless that thing was you." 

"Off himself?" 

Meg shrugged and tilted her head wistfully. "He could probably feel that it was going to kill him."  

"Meg, no. When he found out, he stopped right away." 

Her head tilted to the right slowly. "Um, yeah, because I'm guessing you told him." 

Dean sat down on the wood he was going to use to build their cooking fire, staring at the ground. They'd gotten so close to succeeding with the barriers before Dean had known how bad it was for Sammy. Repairing old magics and making them better, that was a deed for a god-king, not his little brother. "How the hell can you know these things." 

Meg tilted her head. "Easy. I strangled a messenger and roasted his corpse until he talked to me. Sam's the talk of the town." 

Dean glared at her. "Not sure I like your tone, Meg." 

"Oh, as if that matters." 

"Stay out of my head, Meg. And Sam's." He pointed at her when she rolled her eyes. "I mean it." 

She huffed and played with her dress hem, showing him her pale, scuffed-up knees. "I'm coming with you because I'm pretty sure there's going to be things nipping at my heels, more than I can handle on my own, and I really don't want to see Crowley's face again until you've taken off his head." 

Dean looked up at a flock of geese flying overhead, letting their cries fill the lull in conversation. "Tell me about this Zeke guy." 

She shrugged. "He's as interesting as boiled cheese, Dean. Really?" 

"Yeah, you stuck him to Sammy, so I need to know everything you do." 

"Well I can tell you he'd probably cut his own hand off than part with that bone," she smiled wickedly. "Whoever he's got there is someone he really loved, poor baby. Oh, and he's been in prison." 

"Meg, but how are you able to tell things like that?" He hacked at a small dry branch, splitting it into a more manageable size for the fire.

"He's got marks on his wrists from manacles, I'm surprised you didn't see. And then there's the dents in his thumbnails."

"Dents in his thumbnails?" 

"From thumbscrews, Dean. I don't think his nails will ever grow straight again." 

Dean frowned. "How long ago?" 

She shrugged "A while. He's pretty pale, so I figure he was locked up for a time." 

Dean got up and started to build the fire. "Saw him undress on the road the other day. There's no marks on him." 

Meg tilted her head. "There's a lot you can do to a body that won't mar the flesh." She sounded wistful and it made Dean shudder. 

He flipped a few short logs over to the center of their little camp and piled them in a small tower, then looked about for some tinder. He never felt at ease with Meg, and her relationship with Castiel was something that he found himself uneasy over. Not that there was any real threat that she'd steal him from Dean, but Castiel seemed so trusting and casually fond of such a loathsome, conniving woman. The sun was setting and he began to work at the flint and tinder. 

Flocks continued to fly South above both their heads. It would be bitter cold within the month, Dean was sure. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gadreel awoke when Sam sat up, pulling his hand. The prince’s palm felt warm and clammy against his. "Sire." Sam blinked himself to wakefullness. "Pardon, but are you feverish?" 

Sam chuckled a little at that, for some reason Gadreel couldn't decipher. "No. You're cold as ice, though. Stand up, our supper's ready."

The pale knight was bewildered that it was already dark, and he hadn't awoken when it came time to make camp. "I'm sorry, I should have woken to help." 

Sam shrugged and stood up off the back of the cart as Gadreel scooted to do the same. "How are you feeling?" 

"I feel well, your lordship."  He stretched his back and rolled his neck, stiff from laying so long on the hard wood. 

"Just Sam, please. And you should know that my brother and I, well.. the biggest lie we tell is the one where we're both fine." 

He nodded softly. "How much further do we have to travel?" 

"Not far. We may make it there by nightfall tomorrow." 

"I've noticed we're heading East."

"Closer to your home," the prince shrugged. "Yeah, the keep isn't very far from the border, which used to be a boon when we were allied with Athos." 

"Have they attacked your kingdom outright?" 

"How do you not know?" Sam led him towards the fire, for which Gadreel was grateful. He was ferociously hungry, almost to the point where his stomach felt ill. 

"I was in the North of Athos. And I only followed orders." It was a lie, and Gadreel knew that some of the disgust he had for himself showed on his face, but he looked down at the fire lest they think he was directing it at them. 

"Athos is headless, Zeke," Dean stated the fact plainly. He was pulling apart a small cooked pheasant, and offered Sam a leg, then one to Gadreel.  

He blinked. "I am truly out of date." 

Prince Dean's eyes were narrowed. "That can happen when you're locked up for so long." 

Gadreel's appetite vanished like a slamming door. He looked at Sam's face. The prince who he was still bound to simply raised an eyebrow. Meg was grinning like a jackal on the other side of the fire. He felt his fingers curling into a fist, and looked at the bird's leg he was clutching. 

Sam chewed his first bite, watching him. "Ezekiel, why did you lie?" 

The time it would take to explain himself would take the entire evening. He couldn't simply start at the beginning, and tell them his true name. "I thought you might leave me where you met me." 

"Okay, well, what did you do?" 

He took a deep breath. "I am sorry but I will not say."

"But they did torture you, right?" Meg was the one that said it. Dean shot her a fiery glare. 

Gadreel nodded. 

"Were you going to be executed?" The prince's face through the fire was unearthly. Gadreel glanced at him before he had to look away- he wasn't sure what the fire's shadows would reveal in his own face, but Dean seemed almost enthused to talk about the subject at hand. Eager to know what was done to him. 

"No." He took a bite of the pheasant, and it tasted like greasy sand. He wanted desperately for the conversation to be over. 

Sam cleared his throat and continued eating. "Ezekiel, we know how the Atheans work. We've never been real allies with them."

Gadreel chewed and swallowed, feeling his food go down his throat like a stone. "I wish that I was born of this land, and not Athos." 

"Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which fills up first." Meg snickered. 

Sam chuckled and so did Dean. The tension was bleeding out of the conversation, but it still disturbed Gadreel deeply. He would never truly need to return to his home, there was nothing remaining for him there, but the thought that he might never see it again disturbed him. He looked into the fire until his eyes ached, and nibbled at the leg of pheasant.

If he had but one chance to change his past, and reverse the entire tragedy, he would do it and damn the consequences. But that was a ship long-sailed. He couldn't bring his Lord back from the dead, couldn't make himself stop his elder brother. 

When he was sure that he had eaten enough of his bird to appear to have an appetite, he tossed the bone into the fire and leaned his head on his hand, closing his eyes. Exhaustion rolled over him in waves, and he slept sitting upright, side pressed to Sam's warmth. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was woken by a crashing noise and a scream, which he instantly attributed to Meg. He lurched to his feet, heart already hammering away at the unnamed threat. Meg screamed again and he saw the creature circling her as she stood, her back to the smoldering embers of their campfire.

He blinked and drew his sword. It was difficult to see the form of their attacker, but it seemed to be a beast, legs short and sinewy, feet perhaps cloven under the black, wiry hair that descended from its hunched back. Dean drew his sword and stepped forward on his stockinged feet. Thankfully, Sam was awake too, and dragging Ezekiel off of the ground.

Meg was holding her own against the monstrous beast, armed with a sharp stick and sharper tongue. Dean dove forward and the creature nimbly danced back, huffing hot breath that smelled of peat and filth. Red eyes reflected in the firelight and Dean stumbled, just as he realized that this was the largest cursed hound that he had ever laid eyes on. Ezekiel and Sam rushed over, Zeke nearly running sideways with his left hand still tied to Sam's.

Meg kicked at the coals behind her and sparks flared high before they coalesced around her head. "They're here for me!"

Dean's eyes locked with Sam's, and the elder Prince dove forward, blade ready and sharp. He heard Zeke speak softly, only loud enough to decipher that he was speaking in the strange tongue that Castiel used when he talked in his sleep. Blue light emanated from his lips and rose high over the camp like a shining canopy, and the beast seemed to forget itself long enough for Dean to lunge and cut it deep along its belly.

Dean would never admit how much these monstrosities frightened him. Sam already knew, of course.

He heard a growl and then another, smaller hound was upon him. Meg had said "they" after all. She, for her part, was nowhere to be seen. The floating embers were in the air, descending over the largest beast and sinking deep into its flesh like a burning, many-toothed maw.

The howl reverberated through the glen, and Sam gave a shout of triumph when he impaled a lesser hound, one that Dean had not even seen when it entered their encampment . Ezekiel was fighting with his body turned, watching Sam's back and acting as his shield.

Dean could only spare a glance before a damned hound rounded on him, grasped his shoulder in enormous jaws, and flung him down so strongly that he felt his ribs crack on the ground. With no time for calculations, Dean rolled to his back and held his sword up. The beast pounced and yelped when the blade sunk in. The prince twisted it before it wrenched free and fled for the trees, chaotically crashing through the underbrush.

For a terrible moment he thought Sam had fallen, but it was Ezekiel on the dirt, hand twisted around the body of the cursed hound that had his arm in its teeth. It was digging in deep and the light armor groaned under the strong, sharp teeth.

Dean sprang up as quickly as he was able, but Sam ended the dogs' life with a decisive cut through its spine, missing Zeke by inches.

Once one of the pack was dead, the others fled quickly, leaving an eerie quiet over the camp and a sputtering Ezekiel covered in blood.

He had dropped his sword and reached for it, then grunted. "My arm's out of its socket, sire."

Sam helped him up, holding him around his middle. Ezekiel winced slightly. Dean looked around their camp for Meg- he hadn't seen the witch since the beginning of the fight.

"Meg?!" 

Sam looked around. "I don't see her." 

Dean cursed under his breath and wiped his blade on his tunic's edge. Castiel would insist on going after her. 

"Still here, dummies," said the empty air. Meg was an accomplished witch, and had no trouble hiding in open air, her form barely a ghost's edge. 

Ezekiel muttered and leaned on Sam, trying to put his sword back in the sheath and failing the simple test of coordination.

"Dean, help him get his shoulder back where it's supposed to be," Sam demanded as he helped Ezekiel to lay back down on the ground.

Dean shrugged and glared to where he guessed Meg was standing. "Pack the cart up. We're not sleeping here tonight." He knelt down and looked at Sam. "Just like when you let Kevin throw you down the stairs.."

Ezekiel didn't seem pleased but said nothing, lips thinned to a small,frowning line. Dean nodded to Sam and braced his knee beneath the knight's armpit, then gripped his elbow and pulled. Zeke grunted and tears welled up, but after it slid into place with a sickening soft pop, he nodded and simply said "Thank you."

"We should fix your elbow to your side. Don't try to move it around," said Sam. He helped him to stand.

"It has happened to me before- once my hand is free, I'll have no trouble caring for it." Ezekiel wobbled and the princes both helped him to the cart, where he laid down and was snoring before Dean had it hitched to a horse.

Sam put a bedroll over Ezekiel and cushioned it so he couldn't move it around, and nodded to Dean. "Ready when you are." 

They were on the road in the dark within minutes, their way led by Dean with Meg's lantern held high to illuminate the wagon track. He had made the decision to skirt around Lumley to the North, which was perhaps a little more risky with the wall's proximity, but he couldn't risk someone recognizing Meg as they passed through the neighboring Duke's territory. Lumley was traditionally neutral towards the kingdoms, but it had to be, as it was within a day's ride of the wall. 

Dean looked back at Meg, who steered the cart from atop the horse that pulled it. "If you were afraid of being found, why did you make your home so close to Tartarus?" he referred to the plains of Hades, and wondered at her strange smile.

"It's the last place they'd look for me, you dummy."  She looked like a floating face above her dark clothing, hair framing her white skin. "And the wall's defenses are still good there."

Dean turned away and continued on. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Meg could sleep with her eyes open. She did it often, to stay in the habit. The oil that burned in the lamp Dean had held high in the night was made of human tallow, but she'd never tell him. Well, not unless she had a reason. For instance, if she needed him to drop it on the ground and light himself on fire. That was a nice dream.

Dawn cracked through the mountain pass and sliced into her retinas,  jolting Meg awake on her numbly plodding horse. She pulled her shawl over her head and covered her eyes. The boys in the back wagon were both snoring gently, and by nightfall she'd see her Castiel. The princes of Winchester would never trust her if not for Castiel's word, and little would prevent her from raining her wrath on them if the old soldier didn't happily sleep in Dean's bed.

She wondered how long it would take for the knight who called himself Ezekiel to spill his hand to the brothers, and in her darkest heart, she hoped that his secret (whatever that was) would hurt them.

Years had passed since her masters had been dispatched by the pair of hunters, but she was accustomed to waiting for an opportune moment. If her little informants were correct, Crowley's reign was at an end. So let them think that she thirsted for only _his_ blood. Meg would happily see it spilled, along with a measure of Winchester life. 

"At noon I can cut Sam loose." Her voice in the quiet morning made Dean jump and a small flock of starlings took flight above their heads. 

"Yeah, okay. What's with the birds? They're not usually here this late in the year." He scratched his stubble incessantly.

"No snow yet."

"Bullshit." 

"And we're probably being tracked with their eyes." Meg shrugged. "I mean, I can wildly conjecture _all day_." 

Dean stewed in his anger for a bit before talking again. "What do you know about Abaddon?"

"Some old dead knight from back when Lucifer was in charge." She shrugged. 

"What killed her off?" Dean looked over his shoulder at her, obviously calculating some simple conspiracy. 

"I don't think anyone knows. She'd shit square if she knew about Crowley rising up. Too common for her." She watched him turn quickly and squinted at his back. Dean shouldn't even know that name, much less make her a subject of conversation. "She was quite old-fashioned." 

Dean just grunted and kept his horse trotting forward. He insisted on moving through lunch, and only stopped when they needed to relieve themselves on the way home. The horses were sweating by the time the afternoon descended, despite the chill wind. Meg shared her dried venison with the brothers and their knight, and shrugged when only the knight thanked her. She felt a bit sad for him, the way she felt pity for Castiel. But despite her feelings about this naive knight, and his certainly bleak future, she didn't see fit to warn him.  He'd made his bed on these cold shores, and she couldn't change his fate.

In the sunset he sight of the castle made her smile. It needed new thatch, and the moss growing on the stones in patches hinted that the mortar holding them might not be the strongest it could be, but she could call it home for a little while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, but Meg, as charming, sharp, and funny as she is, is _still not really a good witch_.


	3. Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers and their companions finally reach their keep, but the unsettling absence of whole villages within their territories forces Dean to turn back to the responsibilities of the kingdom too quickly for his liking.

Sam cleared his throat and jostled Ezekiel gently, brushing his forehead with his fingers. He didn’t stir.

“Ezekiel?” it was nearly ten in the evening, and they were stopped in the castle courtyard, the scent of the kitchen’s stew wafted through the air, familiar as home could be to Sam.

The knight did not stir, and his face did not flinch when Sam touched it. Sam tried again, more insistent this time, and then leaned down to see that he was still breathing.

Meg’s horse had just stopped in the courtyard, and the witch turned around to look down into the cart it was still tethered to.“Not yet dead, I hope?” She snickered.

“He won’t wake up.” Sam’s brow creased as he looked up at Meg. 

Dean sighed and looked at Meg. “Well?”

Meg, for her part, looked up at the moon and sighed. “I suppose I can untie them a bit early.”

“It won’t hurt Sam?” Dean touched the side of the cart, and shot Meg a glare.

She smirked and rolled her eyes. “He’ll need to rest. That’s it.”

“I hope you realize you’re swearing on your own life now.”

“Dean, my sweet little meat pie, my life was sworn away a long time ago.” She dismounted and clamored into the cart, pulling out a knife with a manic grin.

Sam found himself flinching. Meg made a little kissy sound with her mouth and pulled the leather binding between his hand and Zeke’s, and cut it.

It hit Sam like a blow, hollowness sinking into his bones. He shivered. His fingers peeled away from the cold hand and he leaned back, feeling weak.

Zeke looked about as pale as a dead man. He didn’t stir. Sam looked over at Dean. “I think he’s worse.”

Dean almost shrugged. “Well, he did his job. Got you here.”

“He looks like he’s dying.”

Meg snickered. “Yes, well, I’ll help I guess. Since you boys asked so nicely.” She bent down over Ezekiel and her mass of curly black hair covered both their faces. After a minute of whispering, she sat up.

“Meg, did you just make out with him?” Dean looked mildly horrified.

“He’s not a very good kisser. Also, can’t help him without his name.”

Dean motioned over at the servants and gestured to the horses that needed to be fed and rested. He looked over his shoulder at the witch. “What do you mean? Ezekiel’s his name.”

“Nope.” Meg stood up and hopped down out of the cart.

“Meg, is he going to die?” Sam leaned over a few of the lumpy items in the back of the cart

She shrugged “Keep him close. Either way, you’ll live, Sam.” Meg winked at the pair. “I’m going to find me a real bed.”

Dean watched her leave before speaking his thoughts. “He can sleep in your room on the floor for now, till he snaps out of it.”

Sam shrugged and nodded, undecided about how he felt about the knight being lodged so close to him. He pulled himself to his feet and immediately stumbled into Dean’s side, letting his brother keep him upright.

“Whoa, okay, let’s get you to your room.” Dean started to trudge inside and gestured to a couple of servants to bring the unconscious man in the cart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean saw to it that someone took “Ezekiel”  upstairs and smiled stiffly through the formalities of hearing what had happened in the castle in his absence. Kevin was an excellent steward, but a bit abrupt, and had an annoying gift for hyperbole. Apparently more than two villages had completely vanished overnight, forty or so people gone without a trace. It was something that Dean needed to look into, and he knew that there was likely nothing he could do about it other than figure out what had happened to all of the people living on their borders.  The lay of their lands meant that it was incredibly difficult to reach some of the hamlets and small communities staggered in the mountainous geography, but as Bobby had said- it wouldn’t be their territory if it was easy to hold.

Dean had been so eager to see Castiel that he nearly pushed Kevin out of the way to his chambers, and closed the door in his face.

"Who's there?" Castiel stood and drew a short blade.

Dean faltered. All of the candles we extinguished and his love was sitting in the dark. "Cas, it's me." He heard the knife clatter to the table.

Castiel chuckled dryly. "Dean. Come over here, let me touch you."

"Your eyes are worse, aren't they?" Dean reached out and touched his side, drawing him closer.

Castiel was dressed in loose robes of soft cloth without his belt. “I can see you fine in my memory.” He nuzzled Dean’s chest. “Gods, you smell. Wish I lost that too.”

The prince cradled Castiel’s head. “I’m exhausted, I’ll bathe tomorrow. We have another Athean in the castle now, so you have someone to be homesick with.”

He felt Castiel frown against his chest. “Great. Another fox in my henhouse.”

Dean had to laugh at that. “He’s more like a sick donkey in your barn.”

“He’s sick?”

“Almost dead when we found him. I’d say he’d last another week on his own. Brave, though.”

Castiel poked him in the side. “Stop describing me.”

Dean had to laugh at that. “I’ll introduce you later.”

“Fine I suppose. Get out of those clothes, and into my bed, boy.”

“You know it is actually my bed, right, Cas?” He stroked his ear.

“Oh? Then where’s mine?”

Dean steered him backwards until the backs of his knees bumped against the bed. Cas made a little noise and clutched at his tabard, pulling Dean down on top of him. “Right here.” He murmured in his ear as he landed gently, wearing a grin he’d never allow himself to make with the candles lit.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Gadreel awoke under many layers of blankets and his hand free of Sam's. While he shifted and yawned, he noticed his aching left shoulder and the leather sling that kept it in place. He raised his head awkwardly and beheld the rest of the room. A large double oak door, carved with branches indicated the room wasn't a common one, yet the furnishings were quite impersonal and plain. In truth, it looked barely lived in, save for the stack of books on the desk near the plate window. There were no decorations or paintings.

A soft sound of water lapping in a tub came from the other side of the desk. Sam cleared his throat and stood up out of the bath, setting aside his mirror and razor. He didn't seem to mind his nudity, but the cold of the air did force him to pick up a robe to wrap himself in. He appeared to have just shaved his face, and was rubbing it with both hands to clear the soapy water off.

The knight decided that he was going to have to say something, or risk being caught intruding on Sam’s privacy. “How long have I slept?” he ventured, pulling the covers aside as though he could stand. The air felt frigid.

Sam turned to look. “Hey, Zeke. About a day, I think.” He stood and closed his robe, which Gadreel was thankful for. The prince loomed over the bed. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Yes, a bit. I don’t know if I can eat much.”

“I’ll send for some food. You gave us all a scare, you know.”

“Did I? Sorry.”

“While you were sleeping your lips turned blue and you almost stopped breathing. Meg separated our hands and you improved.” Sam went to the door and opened it, spoke to someone outside, and returned.

This was news to Gadreel. He remembered a dream of sinking into blackish mud and being unable to free himself, but that dream was common for him. “Oh,” he said. “Well, thank you, sire.”

“Stop calling me sire. Although frankly, it’s useful to have someone obedient around, it’s still not normal around here. So let’s get you in the bathwater, and I’ll have someone bring you some eggs.” He reached down and helped Gadreel to sit up.

He managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed and started to lift his shirt. Sam’s warm fingers helped hitch it over his bad shoulder and hook it over his head. It was stained with the blood of the beasts from days before, and stank. Sam tossed it aside and bent to untie Gadreel’s breeches.

The knight found himself sucking his stomach in and looking away as Sam undid the knot that held his linen pants up. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to intimate contact, he and Abner had spent most nights wrapped around each other. But he didn’t know Sam. He’d been locked next to Abner for years before he could admit that he genuinely loved him.

Sam interrupted his awkward introspection. “Stand up out of those.” Sam took hold of his good arm and helped him up. Gadreel’s thighs shook. The prince put his arm around his ribs, obviously looking at how they protruded from his sides. His pants slid down to his calves and he stepped out, and they walked over to the bath where Sam supported him as he sank into the still-warm water.

Gadreel said nothing, but it must have shown on his face how it felt. “I take it you haven’t had a soak in a while.” said Sam.

“No.”

“Would you like to have a shave?”

“Yes, will you send for someone?” Gadreel tucked his healing arm inside the tub.

“No,” said Sam. “I’ll do it.” He pulled a stool over and sat down beside the knight, picking up the sliver of soap to lather his hands and comb it through Gadreel’s prodigious stubble.

Despite how much he wanted to appear composed, Gadreel gulped and fidgeted.

Sam chuckled softly. “You’re not used to this. Being touched.”

He looked up at him. “That’s more or less the issue. I’m sorry.”

“How long were you imprisoned, Ezekiel?” He combed his fingers along his face and neck.

He was reminded of the dream of sinking into a peat bog. “It was a long time.”

Sam picked up the razor and unfolded it. “I won’t ask for too many specifics. But we’re going to be staying by one another for a fortnight. So I’d like to know what you were accused of.”

Gadreel’s eyes were pulled to the razor as Sam loomed over him to work on his stubble. He doubted the prince would cut him, but the threat was there and he knew he had to keep still. He looked up over his head to the ceiling as Sam held his hair to keep his head steady while he made the first strokes. He wondered if he’d ever really enjoy a bath without being at least a little afraid.

When Sam wiped the razor, Gadreel spoke. “I was a guard. And I let an assassin get away.”

“Ah. So you weren’t falsely accused.”

“They told me I had done worse than that. They said I had colluded with the murderer.”

Sam made a little noise in his throat and nodded. He shaved beside Gadreel’s mouth carefully. He went back to get a small tuft that had escaped him, and wiped again.

“I.. I apologized a thousand, thousand times for my failure.” He met Sam’s eyes for the first time since getting into the tub.

“I believe you, Ezekiel.” Sam turned the man’s head and started on the other side, straight razor carefully navigating his jawbone. “But… you see, Meg and I spoke about you while you slept.” Sam’s hand wove into his hair and jerked him to attention. “We know you’re not Ezekiel.”

Gadreel’s knuckles were white, right hand clenched on the edge of the tub. “Please, please, I can’t fight you, I won’t fight you.” He bit his lip to stop himself from continuing to babble. This was one of the things Thaddeus would do, when he had to let his prisoners bathe. Gadreel tried to mentally prepare himself for however long Sam planned to play at drowning him in the tub.

“Who are you?” The prince let the razor dangle in front of the knight’s face.

“I.. I am no threat to you, I swear it.” He felt his fingers turning numb, even his left hand, which sat useless at his side.  

“If you want our protection, you need to tell me now.”

Gadreel mistook the knock on the door for just another few beats of his frightened heart, but Sam didn’t. The prince let his hair slip out of his fingers and went to answer the door.

It was easy to forget that Sam made everyone around him look much smaller than they were. A short, younger man, with jet black hair and dark eyes walked in, wearing a thick fleece vest to keep him warm in the castle’s chill. Gadreel found himself staring at the boy as he set down a tray with a plate of food and a mug. “Kitchen boy’s on break,” said the boy, plainly.

“Oh, so you’re not expanding your duties further, Kevin?” The humor in Sam’s voice was unmistakable.

“Oh. Ha, ha, Sam. Castiel is keeping me too busy.” He looked over at Gadreel, whose face was still plastered with fear, and cleared his throat. “So.. yeah, it’s okay. I see naked men in here all the time. I’m Kevin, the porter.”

He saw an opportunity and seized on it with some hesitation. "I am Gadreel." He looked at Sam and found his expression unreadable,  and he was further unsettled.

"All right then, enjoy your food." Kevin backed away slowly towards the door.

Gadreel did not move. He expected that Sam would be angry, now.  The door boomed as it shut.

"Did you just tell him your name?" He looked slightly aghast.

"Yes, I did." Gadreel looked away.

"That was easy. How do I know that wasn't a lie too?"

Gadreel slumped in the tub. "I... I have no answer for that. Will you shave me, or drown me? The water's getting cold."

Sam smirked and sat down beside him to begin shaving his stubble again. "Tell me more when I'm through here."

"Yes, your highness." He was too exhausted and trembled slightly under the razor's edge,  eyes on the dimming sky out the window.

Sam ran the razor carefully over his jawbone. "Why did you tell Kevin so freely?"

"I was afraid.  I still am. I don't know what you're capable of, sire."

"I've said, you don't have to be so subservient." Sam tilted his head back and cut the stubble up the path of his throat.

"I'm sorry."

"Are your eyes watering, Gadreel?" Sam frowned.

He risked nodding and luckily Sam didn't cut him. The prince stroked his hair and waited for him to calm down before finishing the shave.

Gadreel calmed and looked at the ceiling, stomach growling at the smell of food filling the room. Sam wrapped him in a giant coat of wolf pelts,  and picked at a book of verse while Gadreel ate.

"So, are you ready to tell me everything?" Sam closed the book.

Gadreel nodded.  He had barely touched his fish, but the poached egg had been delicious.  "I was the king's guard. His personal sentry. He specifically requested me when I was a page."

"Wait, the king of Athos was.. he was alive?"

Gadreel nodded. "The princes fought and the younger one was humiliated, rather badly. I didn't understand why, I thought it was a personal matter." He pulled the coat tightly around his body. "Sam, I swear I didn't know his father had ordered it. I thought Lucifer just wanted to talk to him."

Sam had his hand curled under his chin. "He murdered the king."

"I was deceived by the prince. And then, when I saw him standing over the body, I let him leave. He had been my friend. I will always regret it. "

Sam nodded. "That was almost twenty years ago."

Gadreel blinked, and accepted the fact. He had thought it closer to fifteen, but he had been in the dark so long. "May I sleep more now, Sam? "

"Yes. We'll talk more tomorrow."

Gadreel nodded and stood, shakily making his way to the bed.  He laid down in the coat and pulled a blanket over himself. He felt weak and defenseless, but hoped that it would pass as he regained his strength. He pulled his pouch from his belt hanging around the bedpost to hold the rib-bone, to see Abner, and watched him sit on  the bed as he drifted off to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean woke early and redressed after a short bath with a basin of water and a rag.

Castiel, for his part, sat awake in bed, eyes shut until the dawn’s light coming in through the windows became too painful even behind his closed lids. He wrapped his head in a blindfold and sighed. “You’re leaving right away again.”

“If I could put it off, I would. But we’ve got Athean soldiers killing refugees in our borders, and whole towns that have vanished. We slept in one while we traveled to Meg, our horses were taken too.”

“Which issue are you going to attend to first?” Cas touched a goblet and sniffed the contents before taking a sip.

“The vanished people. I sent Charlie and Adam to see what’s happening on the border of Athos.”

“You know what it sounds like.” Castiel wrapped himself in a long wool robe and slipped on his sandals.

“Yeah, I think I do.” He put a chainmail shirt on over his linen jerkin and shoved his tabard over his head. “It’s more diplomatic, so that’s why I sent Charlie in charge.”

“I meant the missing people.”

Dean ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “I don’t think Crowley would have violated the agreement about our shared border. Not yet, anyway.”

“Don’t go alone. Bring Ash, or Bobby will go with you if you ask.”

Dean paused and looked at the floor, the silence creeping in and unsettling them both.

Castiel turned. “What happened to Ash?”

“He died on the road. Bandits.”

Cas hung his head. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“I can’t afford to lose any more people. Bobby is needed, here.”

Cas nodded. “Who will you take with you, then?”

“Benny.”

Dean half-expected that Castiel would argue with him but instead the blind man nodded. “Good.”

“Cas?” Dean touched him on the shoulder before embracing him lightly.

“He’s not trusted around here, but he’s a good fighter and hasn’t hurt anyone.” He put his arms around Dean’s waist and picked at the embroidery on his tabard.

“And when this is over, I’ll come back and we’ll figure out how to fix your eyes.”

“Dean, it’s just a disease.”

Dean frowned and kissed Castiel’s forehead above the blindfold. His lover’s blindness was a strange sort- instead of the light dimming out of the world, Cas saw it as unbearably full of burning light, to the point where even a candle down the hall forced him to close his eyes. Dean had never seen its like, and while he thought that it could in fact be a disease, the easy explanation didn’t settle well with the prince.

“When will you return?”

“A week, perhaps. I’ll send word if I’ll be longer.”

Castiel nodded and kissed him softly on his stubbled chin. Dean knew it would be a hard week without him, but they’d survived worse.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bobby knew a storm was coming by the way that Dean walked into his smithy and pulled out a freshly sharpened sword. The old man sighed and handed him the accompanying scabbard and strap. “Leaving again?”

“No time for rest.” His horse was being readied in the courtyard, his flank visible through the open door.

“Well.. you seen my assistant lately?” Bobby crossed his arms.

“Actually, yeah. I’m taking him with me.”

“Damnit, Dean, I have things for him to work on.”

“So pull in Garth when he and Charlie get back.”

“I ain’t got the time to listen to some noodle-armed kid whine about how heavy a hammer is.” Bobby huffed as Dean chuckled. He knew that Bobby actually enjoyed working with Garth.

“Sorry, Bobby, I gotta be going.”

Bobby stuck his head out the door of his shop, looked at Benny readying his reddish clydesdale, and pointed his finger. “You bring him back in one piece or don’t come back at all.”

Benny grinned back at Bobby, and pulled his cloak over his head. “Got it, pops.”

Bobby went back to his coals, muttering. _“Idjit calls me pops. He’s only eight years younger than me.”_

Dean stepped out into the sunlight and mounted his horse. Benny did the same.

The older man generally didn’t speak much, although he seemed to like most people. He had large tattoos over both wrists, crudely made. Most of the folks in their territory recognized that that meant Benny was a murderer from one of the fallen kingdoms to the south, but he’d earned a mote of respect for his hard work, and never picked up a weapon while within the walls.

Bobby watched them steer their horses out of the gate and sighed. He poured himself some tea, and worked the bilge to melt some more steel to shape. He had quietly begun to prepare for war.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm being kind of mean to Castiel here and I'm a little sorry.


	4. Barrow of Black Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fairly gory happenings in this chapter. No violence, but corpses described.

The witch was not the sort to sleep for long- sleep reminded her of death, and that was something she didn’t wish to repeat, even in jest. After she rested her eyes and brittle bones for a handful of hours, she was up, dressing in the darkness. She descended her jagged tower staircase to confront a woodpile and kick a few logs free for her private breakfast. Meg heaved them upstairs, pinching a spider between her thumb and forefinger as an afterthought. She lit a fire in her tiny fireplace, and went through a few of her small bundles to find her ingredients.

As sunlight began to stream into her bower, she heard unwelcome footfalls echoing up the long spiral staircase. Meg simply sighed and opened her door from across the room with a simple gesture before whomever it was could knock. “You’re up early.”

“How did you know it was me? … Nevermind. Look, I need to know everything about the bond you cast.” He was quite obviously winded from his climb and when Meg turned she wasn’t at all startled to see Sam. He was always a pretty sight, even when he looked like he wouldn’t survive a trip back down the stairs.

“Have a seat, your highness. I’ll make you some tea.”

“I’ll sit, but no tea.” He found a low stool and sat down awkwardly, all knees and elbows.

“Am I to assume that you came all the way up here just to pester me about my methods? Which I know you don’t approve of, and wouldn’t have used yourself.”

He shrugged and nodded.

“What kind of magic do you think it is that I do?”

Sam sighed and answered reluctantly. “Dark magic. The worst stuff.”

Meg set a pot of  water on the small fire to boil. “I see why you think so, considering what I’ve done with it. People tend to think that death is the worst thing that can happen to a person. It’s not.”

Sam’s lips were thin and pressed together.

Meg often reflected what a shame it was that his soul had so little regard for metaphor and poetic speech. She set her metal tea cup down on the table with a bang, and the prince jumped. “It’s sympathetic magic, Sam. It’s conjecture and magnetism and weaving things together.”

“You use blood and bones.”

“What else should I use to link people to each other? Their eyelashes? Damn things blow away,” she deadpanned. “You’ve studied some, right?”

“I have.”

“And you call your magic what, exactly?”

He paused for a moment, considering. “High magic? Old magic?”

She moved a box from her more comfortable chair and sat down. “And that’s funny, because what that means is that you’ve got your head on backwards. Sympathetic magic is the oldest there is.”

Sam shrugged. “Look, this isn’t really… I don’t care.”

“Fine, but sweetie, what I do isn’t dark. I don’t meddle with anyone’s mind.”

He looked uncomfortable and Meg had time to think about how long they’d known each other, and how often he’d threatened to kill her. She smiled. Those were sweet memories.

“So, about this bond you’re responsible for-”

Her eyebrow raised itself. “Interesting wording, but go on.”

“He’s not who he claimed to be. He… well, he’s weak, and nervous, and I think he has an obsession with this little piece of bone he carries with him..”

She laughed. “Oh, right, you weren’t awake for that.”

“What?”

“I gave him the bone. It was a bribe so he’d consent to be bound to you, Sam. You aren’t really a prize catch now, anyway.”

“What is it?”

“Roughly put, it’s an apparition. A ghost he carries fond memories of.”

“Who?” Sam ran his hand through his hair.

“I have no way of knowing. I wouldn’t see anything if I touched the bone.”

“How long are we bound for?”

“I can undo it at any time. But right now, you wouldn’t make it down the stairs, much less to the end of the day, so let’s not hurl ourselves headlong into stupidity, eh?”

Sam nodded. “I have to be close to him, fine- but for how long?”

“Well, you’ve clearly gotten it in your head that you’re well enough to leave him downstairs.”

“I slept in the same  room as him last night, I figured that soon enough I’d feel fine.”

She suppressed a snicker and went to get her water from the fireplace. “Might take a while before you can get him out of your chambers, Sam. Don’t do anything strenuous, like climb a spiral staircase, for a while.”

He glanced towards the door. It was good that he had the sense to be nervous about the descent. “He’s also… said some things, Meg. I don’t think he’s a man of his word.”

“In a few weeks you can murder him happily in a manner of your choosing.”

Sam smirked and then frowned, as though he didn’t like that he found Meg at all funny. “We’ll find him something to do. Dean has a thing for taking in strays.”

“You both do. Thank you, by the way.”

Sam looked a little perturbed. “Anyway, so what happens with the bond if I’m hurt, or he is?”  

“You’re drawing from him, so it’s likely you’d feel something if he was injured. If he dies it might hurt a bit more, but then probably nothing. Of course then your health would fail and you’d be right back where you were. If you truly hate him, line up someone else who’ll be bound to you and I’ll do it again.”

“What if I am injured, will he feel something then?”

“No, Sam, you’re not sustaining him. It really only works one way.”

“I’m not sure I like this at all.”

Meg snickered. “You don’t like much of anything.”

Sam fell silent, probably covering for his exhaustion rather than suffering her needling in silence.

Meg watched her tea steaming, leaves floating in the dark amber liquid. She ignored him and sipped the drink, and looked at the flotsam as it settled against the tin walls of the cup. Meg blinked as she saw the shape of a stag drift straight into a tangled mass of bracken and mire. She drank it all down and stared at the side of Sam’s head until he couldn’t stand it any longer.  

“Well,” said the prince, as though it were a complete sentence. He shrugged, stood up on his gargantuan feet, and adjusted his tunic. “This has been lovely but I feel compelled to find a more comfortable chair to pass out in.”

“You’re welcome, Sam.”

“I didn’t thank you.” He opened her door and leaned on the frame.

“I know.” Meg yawned as he began to trudge down the staircase back to the courtyard. She waited to see if she could hear him trip and fall, but she wasn’t rewarded.

* * *

 

Benny’s wide-assed horse was on point in front of Dean’s as they took a swifter path down into the valley, one that was too narrow for a cart. Dean’s horse was good at a faster speed on these quick and narrow turns, so letting Benny go ahead meant that his dappled Clydesdale wouldn’t be left behind. Benny hid most of himself under a wolf’s pelt cloak, and it made him look even wider than his mare.

They made a tiny camp in the lee of a boulder, lighting no fire. Dean handed Benny a length of salted meat and sat silently against the rock’s surface, looking off at the rising moon.

“You’re in a bad place, aren’t you?” Benny asked. He was never one for honorifics, which was part of his charm.

Dean wiped his face with a grubby hand. “I wish I didn’t have to leave Cas again.”

“You could take a break. Sam’s on the mend, he’ll be back to himself soon.” Benny probably knew he was simplifying things with his plain speech, but that was his way.

“Depends on what’s been happening. Benny, something just took two men and the horses in town, and we didn’t hear a thing. And then there’s the war in Athos.”

Benny chewed his jerky, thinking. He huffed. “You could go home. Close the borders. Forget about the missing folks. They’re not _really_ in your lands, just on the edge.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Yes I am. You’re not doing just the things you _have_ to, Dean. You’re better than that.”       

Dean shivered a little and set his head back against the stone, taking a deep breath. “Castiel can’t see anymore. He’s gotten worse, much faster than I thought he would.” He managed to speak evenly, though his throat threatened to close.

Benny scooted closer and put his arm around the prince, and hugged him for a long moment.  “I’m sorry.”

Dean took a few shaky breaths and nodded. He was grateful for Benny. In some ways, he was closer to Dean than Sam was now- their paths as brothers constantly diverged and were swallowed up by their duties. Benny just helped where he could and didn’t even look at a title.

Eventually, Benny dropped his arms and simply sat next to him, blanket pulled up around his legs. “First watch or second?”

“I’ll take first, it’s all right,” Dean said as he patted Benny’s ankle.

Benny laid down with a few mild adjustments to find a comfortable spot on the dirt and closed his eyes. He was as good as asleep within minutes.

Dean watched him and listened to the breeze and the sounds of crickets. Cicadas would come later in the season, when the nights became warmer. He thought about how it would be to live out in the open without weapons or shelter, his thoughts turning to the Athean bound to his brother.

Sam had sent Dean a short note about this Gadreel. At least Dean now knew who he had forced his brother to be bound to, and it was both intriguing and worrying. If he was optimistic, a former member of the personal guard of an emperor could be an asset. However, the Winchesters were rarely so lucky.  They’d both be safer if they cut him loose as soon as they could.

When the moon had dropped down beyond the horizon, the prince roused Benny, who jolted awake with a start. “It’s only me, Benny.” He patted his shoulder and waited for his friend to regain his composure.

Benny sat up and cleared his throat. “All right, Dean. Get some sleep.”

Dean laid down next to him and pulled the horse blanket over himself. He had hoped he would have an easier time sleeping if he waited through the first watch, but it took a long time for him to finally drift off. He didn’t dream.

Benny waited to wake him in the morning until he had both horses ready to move on into the valley. They stamped anxiously, excited by the crisp air and the crackle of leaves under their hooves.  It would be a temperate day once the sun was high. Of course, in the low trees and groves of maple, the air stayed cool no matter how the sun tried to warm the earth.

Dean got on his horse before speaking. “We’ll get to the place before noon. Maybe we can start back right away if we find some answers.” He didn’t think it was likely, but all Dean wanted to do was return to the castle, and hole up in his rooms with Castiel for a week.

Benny nodded and led the way.

******

In the daylight, the few low buildings looked clean, dappled with sunlight on their thatched roofs. Dean dismounted and walked into the town down through the clearing around the main well, hearing nothing alive besides the snorting of his and Benny’s horses and the creak of his companion’s heavy leather pauldrons. Benny got off his horse hesitantly and drew an axe from his belt.

“This doesn’t bode well. I expected a ruin.”

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Dean drew his sword even though he doubted that anything larger than a rat lived in the village, and walked into the small convent that sat closest to the river. It should have been the most well stocked place in the town, with the best larder- and it was where the Winchesters had sheltered when they first came to the town and found it emptied.

The hall still echoed and the kitchen seemed to be in a further state of disorder, as though animals had been helping themselves to the grain stores. Dean’s boots crunched on the ground and he picked up a pitcher, still intact where it lay on the floor, and set it on the table.

“You slept in here last time, right?” Benny’s voice boomed in the quiet chapel.

“Eight of us, all told. Two guards who were outside and eight horses just gone in the morning. We… couldn’t waste time looking for them then.”

“They won’t be near here.”

“What are you thinking, Benny?”

“Whole town’s gone. Not all of them are gonna want to go. And maybe… not all of them could walk too well.” He poked at a knobbed, worn cane that sat by the hearth.

“But where could they go?” Dean walked back out of the small convent, strangely relieved to see their horses still where they should be.

Benny’s cheerful whistling was odd, unsettling. He stopped as soon as Dean gave him a warning glance. The older man got back up on his horse and walked her after the prince, who stayed on his feet. His horse followed without being told.

Dean took his time going from house to house, looking with care down wells and under beds. When the sun was high, he found one bloody dagger behind a goat pen.

Benny spoke softly so he wouldn’t startle the prince. “There’s a large flock of birds just west of the river, Dean. Or maybe right on it.”

Dean turned his eyes to where he was looking, scrutinizing. “Are they buzzards or eagles?”

“Buzzards.”

Dean sighed and mounted his horse. They made for the river slowly, going off the road through a birch grove. That was the main river that fed most of the lowlands and, through these rockier areas, it cut shallowly around a few small hills. It was just north of there they’d found Gadreel and where, a few years ago, south of this place in the swamp, he’d found Benny.

It wasn’t until they reached the other side of the river that they found the first sign of foul play. A belt lay in a tiny creek, anchored by its buckle and worn by years of use. As soon as Dean began to look, he saw the signs everywhere- a tuft of long honey-colored hair hung from a bush, a dirty button shone dully on top of a rock, and broken twigs and crushed leaves littered the ground.

He galloped ahead, and Benny sped behind him.

The smell nearly dismounted him, and when the crows and carrion birds erupted into screeches and careless black wings, he fell from his saddle and rolled to his knees to vomit.

His horse was spooked, and danced around the edge of the pile of bodies. From atop his Clydesdale, Benny gave a shallow little groan.

Dean wiped his mouth on his sleeve and made himself look. His skin felt like it wanted to crawl away.  These were people he should have protected. They’d been dead a week at a guess, some of them torn asunder, others frighteningly intact save for the bits where the birds had eaten. At the sight of a tiny foot he had to look away to retch again.

He didn’t hear Benny dismount but the man soon had his hands on his back, steadying him, making sure he didn’t collapse into his own sick. Dean was shaking. “I can’t look anymore.” He gasped as his stomach roiled.

“It’s fine, we can go. There’s nothing for us to help now.”

Dean gulped. “Are there any fighting men among them? Can you look?”

Benny patted his back gently and straightened up to look at the pile. He took a moment and paced some of the perimeter of the pile. “Twenty people, Dean. Two of them were… well, one looked like a smith, another of age to be a fighter… everyone else is just old people and -and children.”

Dean pulled his horse’s reins hard and stalked back the way they came. “Gods be damned.”

“What now, Dean?”

He turned, face blotchy and eyes wet. “We make for Lumley, to warn them.”

Benny’s eyes went south, to his homeland. Lumley was north, on the other side of Monks Mound, and straddling the same river they were near now. Dean didn’t need him to say anything to know what was going on in his head.

“I know, Benny. But we’re going to Lumley instead.”

“Why?” His voice was rough.

“Whoever slaughtered these villagers… they’re assembling an army. An army’s no good in the swamp. They’ll keep hitting bigger and bigger towns.”

He watched a muscle jump in Benny’s jaw. He knew the man still had family, somewhere down there near the coast. Eventually the older man nodded.

Dean mounted up on his horse and headed back to the road.      

 

* * *

 

 

Charlie huffed and raised the visor of her helmet. The smoke that she and Adam had seen from miles away seemed to have ceased, and the first group of people she saw down the road put her at ease a little. In the near distance the tower bridge was charred and blackened, most of it appearing to be collapsed into the canyon below. The border crossing into Athos was now near impossible. They trotted their horses nearby before pulling up the reins in front of a large family of no less than six children hiding behind an older woman.

At least there didn’t seem to be any dead and injured laying in the road. There were, however, people moving in the trees, some of them not quite as domestic in nature as the family in front of her.  She looked to the eldest woman of the group and dismounted with a tight smile. “I am Charlie of Bradbury. This is Prince Adam of Winchester. We heard that your people were being attacked within our borders.”

She could almost hear Garth rolling his eyes. He stayed with the loaned soldiers from Lumley as they slowly marched for the tower bridge’s ruin, looking as sharp as they could in their worn armor and patched shields.    

The old woman gulped and seemed to lack the will to speak. She pulled a child close to her and the young boy nodded to her before addressing Charlie in the woman’s stead. “Beg your pardon, m’lady, but Nana’s tongue doesn’t work. The army was…  well, they hurt a lot of people, but they left before the bridge caught fire.”

“Why were they attacking here? Where are the garrisoned troops?” Adam spoke up behind.

“They left across the river when it caught fire.” The boy looked around nervously. “The men who lived in the bridge, they’re missing.”

“Missing?” asked Charlie.

“Their corpses were found inside the tower,” said a female voice from the trees. A woman in a plain nun’s dress approached from the side of the road, her flowing cloak dragging on the ground a little. Like Charlie, she had red hair, but most of it was tucked under a wide-brimmed hat.

“All of them?”

“I’ve heard there were only four, lady Bradbury.”

“You’ve been listening,” said Adam.

The woman’s eyes darted to Adam and slid back to Charlie. “Will you offer us shelter away from this place? We are not soldiers, or accustomed to sleeping out under the stars.”

Charlie’s lips thinned as she held up her hand. “Let me confer with my companion before we decide.”

Adam leaned over in his saddle “If they’re retreating already, that makes the Atheans look rather guilty.”

“It seems suspicious. If it was an outright attack, whose soldiers were defending besides ours on the bridge?” Charlie steadied herself on the saddle and glanced around. “They’re almost all of them farmers or children.”

“Charlie… I’ll go over under a flag of truce and speak to the Atheans. They need to offer a justification for this.”

“...I’m sorry, did you just say that you’d like to go over to the other side, and talk to the people who drove their own peasants out?” Charlie scoffed.  “You really want to be a hostage, don’t you?”

“Well, when you say it like that.” Adam sighed. “But we’re only going to get one side of the story from these people.”

“So? Who cares?” Charlie held on to his horse’s reins to keep the gelding from  stepping away from hers.

“Charlie, we have absolutely no idea what they want out of this war. Why it’s spilling over into our borders- we don’t know why they’re killing their own- none of these people are a threat.”

Charlie huffed. “We could send Garth over.” She glanced over at the redheaded nun as she went to confer with a group gathered around a cart of what looked like jars of grain. 

“No, I know he can talk his way out of a death sentence, but we don’t want to snub them by sending… well, an apprentice blacksmith.”

Charlie was silent for a long moment. “If you don’t come back in two hours, we’re going to assume that they’re keeping you.”

Adam nodded and began to dismount. “Get everyone together, but don’t stay in sight of the far bank. They might have archers.”

She nodded and grumbled at him. “If you don’t come back, Dean will probably kill me.”

“That would never happen. If I even thought of sending you in my stead he’d gut me,” he said as he grinned up at her. It faded from his face quickly. “See you by dusk.”

Charlie waited for him to walk away before addressing the nun. “What’s your name?”

“I am Anna,” she said simply, walking closer.

“Anna what? Sister Anna?” Charlie loosened her grasp on her horse as soon as she heard the soft clink of armor from the nun’s direction; under her habit, she was wearing something metal.

“I don’t have that title,” she took a deep breath. “I apologize. I was a lieutenant in the Athean Army under Michael of the host. I wish to defect. If they saw my hair from the other side of the river, they’d fire a volley.”

Charlie blinked, and decided to keep her helmet on. “You’re deserting?”

“Rather more than that. I want to help you to prepare to fight them- and be more ready for their tricks. Simply waiting for the host to make war on your kingdom is not wise. We have a handful of fighters here, but they try to take more back to the fold every day.” She looked deathly pale under her black hat.

“They’re taking back these peasants?”

“They’re good people, Lady Bradbury. But they’re tired, and bone weary of running. None of the generals have a legitimate claim to rule them. Raphael’s tried to relocate the whole lot to behind his lines, but Michael’s settled for crippling them if they won’t stay in his fiefdom.”

Charlie had a pit in her stomach and a stone in her throat. “What does that mean?”

Anna chewed her lip, and the simple gesture made her look incredibly young. “He prefers to break their hands. It makes them… unfit to work the land and a burden on their families.”

She looked over to where Adam would be crossing the gorge by now. “I see. Pull everyone together and have them gather a few hundred yards up the road. No archer will see them, or you, there.”

Anna nodded. She turned to the boy beside the old mute woman and touched his shoulder. “Alfie, try to get the children up there first. I’ll come with the carts in a few minutes.”

Charlie turned hers and Adam’s horses and plodded back up the road, ears attuned for the sound of whistling arrows. Nothing quite terrified her as much as being shot through with an arrow- _once_ was more than enough.

Within ten minutes the peasants were circled together near the few horses, and Garth was trying to calm their worries about food by offering his own rations up for the children to share amongst themselves. Anna stayed near Alfie, her eyes never leaving Charlie for too long, not even trying to hide her unnerving stare. Charlie gave a few orders to the men from Lumley to help guard their rear and, eventually, reluctantly gestured Anna closer.

“Yes, Lady Bradbury?” Anna approached slowly. She was still in all black, and under closer scrutiny, perhaps aided by the knowledge that the habit was a fraud, it seemed quite old and ill-fitted.

“Point out the other fighters here, if you’d be so kind.”

Anna sighed and gestured to Alfie. “This is Samandriel. He’s an officiant, really, not much of a fighter.”

Samandriel stood up straighter at the mention of his name and blushed. “I… well. You’ve never seen me fight, Anna.”

Anna smirked. “Over there is Hannah. She was a supply officer. And Inias, he’s no veteran but he’s versed with a blade.”

Charlie blinked. “You really didn’t bring any fighters, did you?”

She looked up at her. “I said they were fighters, and I meant it. Whether they’d win by brute strength,” Anna shrugged, “probably not.”

Charlie sighed up on her horse, anxious for Adam’s safety. “Any others?” 

Anna stood on tiptoe to whisper to her. “I don’t know all of these people, but most seem well enough. We’ll pass any test you want, just please, get us out of here.”

She looked off into the middle distance. “We will leave soon,” she said as she thought of the empty town they’d slept in a handful of nights ago- without anyone to tend their crops they’d lose all their corn and grain. If those folk weren’t found, these Athean refugees could perhaps live there.  

A year ago she would have thought that an especially cruel situation, but she’d since learned that sentiment was a kind of trap. If they were to have a chance of surviving as a kingdom, the Winchesters would have to operate without it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Gadreel in this chapter, sorry!


	5. The Wild Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gadreel has his first meeting with Castiel, and Adam meets with the Host.

Gadreel hadn’t held a book in his hands in more than twenty years. It surprised him that his eyes hadn’t dulled or forgotten the shape of words. He sat near the window, breathing the fresh air, tinged with the flavor of woodsmoke, and read from a book of poems:

_“Already rejoicing, I begin to love,_

_For I am made better by one who is, beyond dispute_

_The best a man ever saw or heard.”_

He paused at the end of the passage and thought again about leaving the room. He didn’t _need_ to, of course. This wasn’t a prison after all; he could still open the door and look down the hallway, make eye contact with the guard again, who seemed to never move. It was terrible how novel it was to be able to just walk over and open the door. But he stayed in Sam’s room, never sitting on the more comfortable chair, which obviously belonged to the room’s owner. Sam didn’t have real cause to trust him and his position here was still tenuous, so he wouldn’t risk anyone’s ire in any way. He felt strange about dressing himself in Sam’s robe, but he couldn’t very well put his arm in a sling and wear nothing but a blanket and retain his dignity as he moved about the room. He didn’t bother with breeches. Lacing them would have been a nightmare and it seemed far too intimate to wear pants that belonged to the Prince.

This was such an odd little family kingdom, and he’d known nothing like it before. Athos had been a place of ceremony, of cleanliness and order. It wasn’t that he minded the way the Winchesters ruled their mountain kingdom, but he certainly felt out of place.  He expected that if they let him stay, he’d be guarding either the stables or the latrines.

Gadreel’s eyes snapped up as the door opened and Sam entered. He closed the book, fingers pressed softly to the doeskin cover. “Hello, Sam.”

“Oh, you’re awake.” He walked over to the bed and immediately laid down on it with a grunt, face down. Gadreel wasn’t even sure that he’d noticed him wearing his robe.

“Sire… I mean Sam- are you feeling well?”

“Exhausted. I wanted to think I could be on my feet longer. I suppose it’s not meant to be, today.”

Gadreel watched him as he settled into stillness immediately. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, just… wake me in time for dinner.”

“Yes, of course.”

Sam huffed a little and Gadreel supposed that he was still being too formal, and unsettling the prince. He returned to his book until he heard Sam begin to snore. It wasn’t that he was tired, precisely. His eyes kept returning to the sleeping man on the bed. When his stomach growled he told himself he had no real excuse to put off eating, and went out into the hall, intending to find the kitchens.

A young woman in a guard’s uniform stood opposite the door, holding a small shield. Her gold hair was braided behind her head, under a helmet that was polished to a high shine. She snapped to attention when Gadreel opened the door.

He looked down the hall nervously. “I… is it permitted for me to enter the kitchens?” He pulled the robe closed over his chest with his good hand.

She tilted her head. “Do you need something from within? I’ll fetch it.”

He’d wanted to look around and, more importantly, prove to himself that he could leave Sam’s bedchamber, but it seemed rude to refuse her. She was young and her eyes sparkled. Gadreel fumbled for words.

“I… well, miss.. I haven’t eaten all day.” He smiled and it felt forced and unnatural.

She beamed back at him. “I’ll see that you get something, sir.” She turned to walk down the hall. Gadreel didn’t realize he was watching her leave until she turned back to grin at him. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He retreated into the room and sat at the table, dumbfounded. If she was a guard, then who was she guarding? If they thought he would harm Sam, then why wasn’t there a guard _in_ the room? Gadreel stared at Sam’s sleeping form, strangely calmed by his light snoring.

The young guard returned within ten minutes,  a flagon of mead balanced on a tray heaped with bread and a bowl of stew. She didn’t knock, probably didn’t have a hand to do so. Gadreel stood up and fidgeted.

Her grin was still incandescent, and he found himself smiling awkwardly back. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Everyone calls me Jo,” she whispered, glancing to the sleeping prince.

That seemed an awkward statement. “Is that not your name?”

“Joanna, actually. But I prefer Jo.”

“Oh, I see. I’m Gadreel.”

She nodded as if she’d already known. “Well, I’ll be out in the hall if you need anything.” She retreated and closed the door softly.

Gadreel started eating eagerly, amazed at the hearty chunks of beef in the stew, and how incomparably delicious the bread was. The flagon was full of mead, so he sipped sparingly, not sure of his competency in drinking, or of the brew’s strength.

When the door opened again he watched the porter, Kevin, walk in with a blindfolded man wearing what appeared to be a priest’s cassock.  

“Is he here?” the blindfolded man asked in a low, granular voice.

“Yeah, Cas. At the table,” Kevin answered.

“Good. You can go. Stay outside with Jo.”

Kevin reluctantly dropped the man’s hand and went outside. In a few seconds, after the door had shut, the man shuffled forward and bumped his foot into a chair which he promptly sat in.

“I am Castiel.”

“I have heard that you are a good man, Castiel. I am Gadreel.”

The silence as Castiel’s mouth thinned to a tiny line wasn’t at all comfortable. “You’re a _traitor,_ ” he eventually said, voice cold and plainly furious.

He tried not to sound as unnerved as he was, and glanced to Sam as though the sleeping man could intervene on Gadreel’s behalf. As though the prince would vouch for his character, despite knowing nearly nothing of him. “I paid for my crimes, Castiel. I was in the dungeon for almost twenty years.”

“Your actions led to so many deaths- wars were fought, and those who put their faith in the decisions of their lords lie dead on the battlefield. Some were never buried.”

He could supply so many reasons why none of that was his fault, and stammered as he rejected each one. Weakly, he croaked. “I never intended any of it.”     

When Castiel drew a dagger from his belt, Gadreel jolted out of his seat so quickly that he nearly spilled his soup on his lap. He clutched the bowl and backed away. He couldn’t account for his cowardice; Castiel was blind and yet Gadreel found his knees unsteady.

Sam stirred on the bed just as Castiel stood up. Logically, in that part of his mind still capable of wit and analysis, Gadreel knew that the blind man posed no threat. But the other Athean looked bound and determined to attack him, and he had no defense besides a bowl of hot stew.

“Cas, what the hell are you doing?” Sam sat up on his bed.

Castiel’s head turned slightly towards the bed, but his knife was still pointed across the table at Gadreel. The knight backed into the window, his injured shoulder resting against the stone frame. He held his bowl with both hands, trying to will the stew to not spill.

“You can’t allow this traitor to be in your room, Sam. It’s catastrophic foolishness.”

“Cas, put the knife away. You’ll hurt yourself.” He stood and started to creep towards Castiel.

“Don’t coddle me. I’m blind, not stupid.”

Sam’s voice was calm. “He swore fealty to us.”

“I don’t care!” The blind man lurched into the table and the ale sloshed.  

Both Kevin and Jo barged into the room and Castiel grimaced, defeated. “You can’t let him stay, Sam. He’s Lucifer’s brother. It’s not safe for any of us.”

Gadreel looked at the rippling surface of the stew and tried to force himself to breathe before the room began to spin. “He’s not my… no. He’s not.” He didn’t think anyone heard him and swallowed repeatedly so he wouldn’t ramble.

Jo calmly took Castiel by the arm and guided him to sheathe the dagger, seeming much calmer than Gadreel would have thought. She looked at Sam apologetically and started to help him to walk to the door.

Kevin stood dumbfounded as the pair left, looking back and forth between Sam and Gadreel. “He’s… He’s not right, is he?”

Gadreel opened his mouth and closed it again when words wouldn’t come.

“No, he’s not right, Kevin,” Sam said. “Can you see that he gets to his room, please?”

Kevin nodded and backed out of the prince’s chambers, closing the door behind him.

Sam took a deep breath and a moment to force his expression back to normal. “Is that stew for me?”

He wasn’t sure where his voice was coming from. Gadreel felt numb. “If you like, sire.”

“Gad-” he stopped once he realized he was about to correct him for the same mistake again. He seemed to reconsider. “Fine, call me what you like.”

Gadreel set the stew down slowly on the table again. “I didn’t mean to upset him. I-”

“Is Lucifer your brother?” Sam squinted at him.

Gadreel stood perfectly still. “He called me brother. Before… before he killed the King, it seemed a joke.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“I don’t know.” Gadreel’s voice felt shallow in his throat.

Sam sat down in his chair at the table, shoulders hunched.

“This is exactly what I wished to avoid, Sam. I never wanted my name to be known.”

“Was the king your father?”

Gadreel had had a lot of time to mull over his parentage. He took a deep breath. “My mother was not married when she became pregnant, but an advisor to the king married her soon after I was born. That man was my father in every way that mattered.”

“But the king wanted you close, so had you promoted to his guard?”

Gadreel’s stomach didn’t seem like it would tolerate food. “I believed I made it on my own merit. Perhaps I did.”

“Lucifer knew?”

“I don’t know. He liked to talk to me even when I wasn’t supposed to talk back. He’d say certain things to try and get a reaction out of me.” He gestured towards the food on the table.  “Are you hungry? I’ve lost my appetite.” Gadreel went to sit down on the bed, still shaking.

Sam shrugged and moved to the table.

A silence passed between them while Sam gnawed on some of the bread. Gadreel stared out the window.

Eventually, Sam spoke. “I know Lucifer. So does Castiel.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He had me imprisoned.” Sam’s tone was strangely light, considering the topic.

Gadreel hesitated a moment before venturing a slight smile. When things were indeed terrible, making light of circumstances seemed to help.  “Me too.”

 

  

* * *

  
  
  


Adam’s heart was in his throat as he climbed up the difficult narrow path on the other side of the gorge. The ruins of the wooden bridge were below him, burnt and twisted, sharp points raised towards the sky. It was a risky crossing, and he was doing it under a white banner. It took more than an hour to climb out of the river canyon, and when he did, he found a half-dozen Athean soldiers waiting for him.

The young knight gulped. “I am Adam of Winchester. I would like to speak with your commander.”

He was expecting some rudeness so the bow he received was off-putting. A stone-faced man of darker skin met his eyes, without a hint of distrust. “Yes, of course. You will be asked to disarm when we approach.”

Adam nodded and walked along the road to where an encampment sat behind a copse of dry, brittle trees. It wasn’t far, but it did hide the camp from the other side of the river and the tower there. There were a few dozen men about, most of them out of armor. It appeared as though a contingent were leaving, packing a large cart with tentpoles and cloth. The soldiers he was with walked him to a plain tent on the side of the encampment and waited as he pulled his sword and sheath from his belt and surrendered the blades, including his dagger, to them.

The man sitting in the tent looked too young to be in command. He didn’t smile, or even acknowledge Adam’s presence, so the young knight cleared his throat. “I’m Adam of Winchester.”

He nodded. “I’m Michael of the Host. Am I to presume that you speak for the little Kingdom across the river?”

Adam faltered some at that. Though the kingdom called Winchester _was_ small, he wasn’t used to defending the legitimacy of it. “I do.”

“Did the princes not consider the destruction of a major thoroughfare worthy of their attention?”

He tried not to take Michael’s words as an insult. “I’m sure they would have come if they had known about the bridge. As for their attention however, you have it.”

“The bridge went up in flames two nights ago. Now the criminals within your borders are your problem.”

“Criminals?” He scoffed. “I saw children, farmers and craftspeople. Women and the elderly.”

The look that Michael fixed on Adam made him worry. Under the flag of truce, surely nothing would happen to him personally, but the lands of Winchester were indeed minor and he knew that Sam and Dean wouldn’t be able to mount a rescue if he was taken prisoner in Athos.

Michael stood up, and Adam noticed how he was larger than he’d previously thought- more bulky under his ornamental armor than most nobles and officiants would be. This man before him was a knight and a soldier, rather than a noble granted a hollow title.

“They fled fertile lands,” Michael began, “which lay fallow with no one to tend them. They are citizens of our lands and should be returned. And we have women as soldiers in Athos, do not discount them because they wear frocks now instead of armor.”

Adam licked his lips before responding. His palms felt sweaty. “I have heard rumors of a blight on the land- people are suffering from starvation while your houses fight for supremacy.”

“And I have heard that your lowborn family rules a kingdom with only a handful of soldiers. You burned the bridge to keep us from our own deserters. Perhaps you’ll arm them to fill your own ranks.”

Adam knew he had to tread carefully.  “We arrived only this morning, Michael, responding to reports of your forces attacking Atheans on our land. The bridge could have been burned by accident.”

“Then return our people to us. I pledge to you that they will be treated fairly. You don’t want to have the fight inside your borders, that I understand.”

“I can’t ask those people to climb that gorge.” Adam motioned in the direction of the river, and Michael’s eyes flickered, following his hand. He realized that he had the knight’s complete attention and that made this negotiation somehow more unnerving. Adam had been taught to handle a sword by his brothers less than five years ago, and diplomacy wasn’t a part of that training. Sure, Sam had books on historic treaties that he left sitting out for him to presumably study, but he’d fallen asleep every time he’d tried to read them.

Michael leaned over the small table, assessing Adam’s physique clinically. “You were able to do it. I understand that the old and infirm will not make the climb. But the others easily could, if encouraged by the lack of food and shelter on your side.”

“But we can offer food and shelter to- oh.” Adam looked down to the table, where there was a map of Mt. Athos, which lay several leagues to the east. “You’re asking us to deny them.”

“They’ll be cared for on this side of the river. Deliver the others to Elk’s crossing within the fortnight.” Michael’s smile wasn’t entirely benevolent.

“I… will deliver your terms.”

“That’s it? You won’t take the initiative as a prince of Winchester?”

“I’m not really a… ”

“You’re the lesser brother, aren't’ you?” The Athean smirked.

Adam was struck dumb by his wording. The _lesser_ brother. He struggled to find his voice, and took a deep breath. “We thought this would be a much different situation- we heard that there were attacks taking place inside our borders.”

“That’s a laughable insinuation.”

“And I offer you my apologies, but upon finding that the situation is different than described, you have to understand that I can’t promise you anything.” Adam could feel that his face was pale and cold, and he was inwardly amazed that he could string together anything that could fly under the banner of diplomacy. He wanted his blade, even just to rest his hand on its pommel.

“We won’t violate the sovereignty of your lands, no matter how minor they are. But your rights to them may come into question if you move against us and harbor fugitives.”

“Michael, I’m sorry that we couldn’t come to an agreement about what’s to be done. I’ll put the matter before my eldest brother.” Adam turned to leave the tent.

“Wait.” Michael walked around the table, but didn’t block his exit.

“You have more to add?” Adam felt tense, like he was pretending to be someone else, someone more properly educated and noble.

“Yes. I am aware that you are unable to act in your own interest. If that ever changes, I hope that you will consider returning to our lands.” Michael extended his hand for the customary shake that the lowlands were fond of- it wasn’t an Athean custom.

Adam blinked, recognizing the olive branch for what it was. He grasped Michael’s hand and found his fingers awkward. They shook and the young man licked his dry lips. “Thank you, sir.” He pulled his hand back and left the tent, momentarily blinded by the bright sunshine.

  


* * *

 

 

The horses never lasted long. An army which never slept, nor ate, nor spoke; it was a thing of myth, and none of the domesticated beasts would ever keep pace with them. Abaddon walked amongst them, her heavy armored coat gleaming like a beetle’s carapace. Lucifer alone was mounted on a gray mare whose eyes were white and bloodshot, frothing at the nostrils.

Abaddon glanced up at him, catching him in a moment of adoration. It was so very convenient that her prince was taken by her beauty and not intimidated by her power. Of course, he had his own might. With a few words spoken in an ear of a common person, most would lose their will and follow his command until their bodies failed and they were left dead on the ground. Those that didn’t found her blade a mercy.

“One more day west, my love, and I’ll show you my kingdom,” he said, his voice gentle and mild. He always seemed so passive, and at the same time she knew how little mercy he had in his core.  He looked down at her again, his smile contagious.

Abaddon replied, “One more day and we’ll cleanse the rest of that mongrel’s house.” She grinned up at him, her wild red hair floating around her head.


	6. Penumbra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cusp of some new beginnings.
> 
> (I keep going back and re-editing things to read better. Thanks to what_about_the_fish and castielsstarr for the help!)

Dean heard the tolling of a bell six times, as the sky began to dim to a soft reddish purple. The sound wasn’t out of the ordinary at dusk; and ahead of him he saw Benny slouch before slowing his horse to trot beside Dean’s.

“You owe me dinner, brother.” Benny leaned forward in the saddle and combed his fingers through his horse’s mane. Dean knew Benny felt tired and hot, but watched him pull on gauntlets to hide the tattoos that traversed his wrists anyway, used to hiding them while in the company of strangers. **  
**

“Let’s go to the keep, that way I don’t have to pay for dinner.”

“You know I meant the ale house,” Benny murmured good-humoredly. He was still alert, watching the thatched roofs through the trees. As they rounded a bend and looked down on the town, it seemed as though everything was fine.

“Sounds like a good plan, after I see Duke Devereaux,” he replied. Dean gradually relaxed his demeanor and shifted in the saddle. The insides of his thighs felt rubbed raw by the full day’s ride. He couldn’t be sure of what had transpired in the empty town behind him, but at least the horror hadn’t come this way.

It would be hard to put the pile of dead people out of his mind, but he’d have a few drinks with his friend to numb the memory.

When their horses walked into town, Dean dismounted at a tavern with Benny and handed him the horse’s reins. “Tell them you’re my squire.” **  
**

Benny just raised an eyebrow, a tiny smile playing at his lips. “Sure thing, chief.”

He stretched his back a little as he walked, unaccompanied, to the keep. The houses on the row leading there were of white brick and dark, tarred beams, unlike the earth and stone buildings he usually called home. It was starting to be a familiar sight, and he’d visited it more in the past month than he had in the several years prior. He nodded to the guards as they allowed him inside and held the door for him.

Frank Devereaux was never the sort to be comfortable in a castle, and that might have been why Dean liked him so much. He also didn’t suffer fools in his court, and was less likely to trust someone who complimented him than someone who insulted him outright. Like Dean, he had some sort of birthright to the lands he ruled, and also didn’t have a clue how a noble was supposed to behave in court.

He was sitting on his throne, eating from a small table nearly on his lap, and drinking his usual brandy from a delicate teacup.

“Prince of Winchester, I thought I smelled you nearing my keep.”

Dean shrugged and grinned. “The Duke of Devereaux is dining alone again?”

“Unless you’re here to join me and pilfer my good spirits. Which I suspect you will, one way or another. Where are the men I loaned you last week?”

“It’s only been four days, Frank. They’ll be back soon enough. Did you send anyone out to the convent to check?”

“Only to confirm that it’s abandoned. I don’t have more than a hundred men, I’m not about to spare more than twenty away from the keep at a time.”

“What do you think happened? Have you heard anything?” Dean asked. **  
**

“Apparently the Atheans are having trouble with their peasants walking away from their farms and taking the livestock with them.”

Dean shifted on his feet. “I’ve heard that about the Atheans, too. But... that’s not what happened at the convent.”

“Oh?” He sipped from his cup. “Do tell.”

“I found a massacre just across the river, less than a mile away.”

Frank’s usual begrudging levity fell away as he set his cup down. “How?”

“Some were put to the sword... they weren’t soldiers, Frank. None of the dead were fighters.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know. If it’s an invading force, I’ve heard nothing about it. Just the vanished people.”

The duke sputtered. “Bandits?”

“Nothing was stolen,” replied Dean.

“You’ve put me off my dinner.” There wasn’t any venom in the words. The older man folded his napkin and set it on the table. “If I bring all of Lumley inside the castle with an unnamed, unseen enemy, they’ll riot.”

“Are you sure?” Dean’s boots hurt his feet, so he leaned on a table.

“They’re paranoid, superstitious, and prone to violence in tight spaces.”

“Are you aware you’re describing yourself?”

Frank laughed bitterly. “It’s why I’m so well suited. How are your homicidal, undereducated rabble?”

“As well as usual. I’ll leave for home at dawn.”

“Will you be staying in the castle?” Frank sipped his brandy and stood up from his dinner.

“No, the inn, as usual. It’s just easier. All your rooms are drafty.”

Frank smirked. “Fair enough. I'll visit when you have a better place to stay at your castle than that chilly tower. But what do you plan to do about this… army?”

“Go home. Make sure the walls are solid.” He stood up straighter as the duke walked close. Despite his jovial tone, Dean could see that his smile didn’t reach his eyes. **  
**

Frank shook his hand. “I’ll send a few pigeons, so you can get me a message without having to come down the mountain.”

“I’ll tell the kitchen not to cook them.” Dean laughed dryly and straightened up, pulling his tabard tight under his belt.

Frank shrugged and went back to his seat, sighing audibly. Dean walked out of the castle, and back down the flagstone path that straddled the middle avenue of Lumley.  Evenings like these seemed deceptively peaceful, and he knew that it was only the evil in his wake that made him feel that way. This town didn’t hold any monsters or illusions, just long shadows and muffled voices.

The sun was getting down behind the hilltops and casting the timber-framed white buildings in an amber light. The tavern was distinct among them in that it had, by far, the most windows, with small glass diamond shapes set into lead.

Dean stood outside for a moment before going in, pushing himself through the doorway into the sounds of the few dozen people drinking and playing cards. Benny was already settled at a small table with a bowl of stew and a roast chicken for himself (he never ate much on the road, but his appetite was usually pretty fearsome if a kitchen was available). He motioned Dean closer, letting him have the seat further into the corner. 

Benny had removed his gloves, and was already the subject of a few wary glances and hushed whispers. Dean tried to ignore them, knowing that the worst they’d result in was a few more people being aware of their resident southland convict. However, his companion seemed unable to relax.

Dean sighed and ordered stew and ale. He’d be back on the road in the early morning, heading straight home. If they risked riding after dusk their horses would have to tread slower so they wouldn’t risk a broken leg, and he’d save only a few hours all told. But still he ached to be back at the castle in his own bed. With Castiel.

Benny chewed slowly, pretending not to notice anything out of the ordinary from the peasant onlookers and their gawking faces. “Got you a room upstairs with a window that opens.” **  
**

“What about you? Where are you going to sleep?” Dean leaned on the table. He was exhausted; rationally, he knew it hadn’t been a physically taxing day, and he wouldn’t have peaceful dreams when he finally got to sleep, but he wanted to lay down perhaps more than he wanted to eat.

“I’m leaving town tonight, Dean.” He prodded his chicken.

“Did someone say something to you before I came in?” He grit his teeth and looked around at the strangely hostile room.

“That’s not it at all, Dean. You can get yourself home, yeah?”

He nodded stiffly, disarmed by the expression on Benny’s face. He seemed strangely withdrawn and a little sad. “What is it, Ben?”

“I know I’m risking my neck to go back again, but I have to make sure my kin are safe.”

“Benny, if they catch you... they probably aren’t going to wait to kill you, or put you in a gibbet until you freeze.” He sat up straight as his stew was placed in front of him.

“I know, brother. But I can’t let anything happen to my kids, you know that.”

Dean huffed at the bowl and steam wafted up, smelling of onions and pork. It irritated him when Benny called him brother—maybe because he couldn’t devote as much time to him as Benny clearly gave to Dean.

“I’m sorry.” He pushed about half the chicken over to the prince.

“No, Benny, it’s fine, I understand. I just—I want you to come back in one piece. And maybe it’s because I’m losing people left and right, and if you’re far away I can’t do anything about what’s going to happen to you.”

“Dean, just because you’re a prince doesn’t mean it’s your fault when bad things happen to normal folk.” **  
**

“I know.” He took a bite of stewed pork and nearly burned the roof of his mouth. He ignored the sting. While he stubbornly chewed, he watched a red-faced drunkard stumble towards Benny’s back and intentionally bump into the seated man, pushing Benny into the table.  

Benny looked up at the man and took in his smirk, his obvious drunken state, and put on a stiff smile. “Pardon, friend.”

“Oh, thought you were just a pile of rags.”

Benny paused. It was difficult to gauge what would tip the older man over the edge, and Dean held his breath. If he chose to fight, Dean might have to back his right to do so, which could delay his return. Not that he’d mind seeing Benny let his fists loose—he’d learned much from watching him handle things without the use of a knife or his axe.

Benny patted the stranger on the shoulder, near his chest. “Well, you just watch yourself, lad.”

The man blustered, straightening his spine. “This is where I _live;_ it’s you that should be careful, murderer.”

Benny’s face paled visibly and his hand rested on the man’s shoulder, fingers digging in to pull at his vest. “See to your tongue; it’s getting you in a bit of trouble.”

“Anyone can see plain as day what you are.”

“And I’ll be on my way soon,” Benny growled.

Dean stood up, his tabard displaying for all who could see that he was of Winchester. “Leave my squire alone.” **  
**

The tavern fell silent. Benny let the man go and set his hands down at his belt, fidgeting with the leather. He sat down slowly as the peasant backed away from the table and left out the door. He looked drunk enough to fall off his horse, and Dean regretted his harsh tone. This would be the talk of the town until the next year.  

Dean didn’t resume chewing until the normal atmosphere of the tavern returned. Benny put his gloves back on slowly. “I suppose I better go now.”

“Benny, wait an hour and I’ll see you out of town.”

He sighed. “No. I’ve eaten, Dean. I’ll go now.” The big man leaned over and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Keep safe. If I find out anything’s happened to you, I’ll feel terrible for at least a day. Maybe longer.”

Dean gave up a reluctant grin. “Thanks, brother, it’s good of you to care.”

Benny stood up. “I’ll be back before midwinter.”

The prince sighed and gestured to the door. He didn’t watch him go, and ate the rest of his meal expediently, not looking at or speaking to anyone else.

When Dean retired to the bed the inn had allowed him in a small, private room, there was still enough light in the sky to see the road and the hills on the eastern end of the valley. He took off his boots and sat to watch the road, opening the window all the way, strangely comforted by the cold, crisp air.

He’d lived most of his younger years in one barracks or another, pulled along in his father’s wake. The smells of shared rooms could be a comfort at times, but the novelty of having his own bed had grown on him, and now the nostalgia for his early years had faded.  If his father had one failing, it was his refusal to find a permanent home for his sons before embarking on his quest for revenge.

He used to think that being raised on the road made him into a tougher fighter. Now he felt it made him an outsider, no matter where he stood.

Out the window, in the last of the fading daylight, he watched a dog—or maybe a wolf—lay down on the road as the dirt path bent around a copse of trees. He wasn’t sure if it was an ill omen, or if he even believed in that sort of thing, but he avoided looking too long anyway, trying to escape the feeling of foreboding that kept rising out of his gut. He lay down on the narrow straw-stuffed bed and waited for sleep. It was a long time before it found him.

 

 

* * *

 

Sam requested eggs and oatmeal for his breakfast, and had them bring a second helping for Gadreel, who seemed strangely relieved when he woke up to find a plate waiting for him.  He adjusted his sling after momentarily stretching his arm with a small wince. The prince guessed that Gadreel wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and let most of his breakfast pass in amicable silence. **  
**

As Sam ate his last few bites, he finally spoke. “We can go see to the business of the castle today. I’d like you to come with me if you can.”

Gadreel raised his eyebrows as he chewed and swallowed. “I can. I should probably borrow some clothing.”

“You don’t think a blanket alone is suitable?” Sam snorted and leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth.

The Athean looked like he appreciated the joke. “Not unless you’d like to start a scandalous rumor.”

“Ha! Fine. Do you think you’ll need help with the breeches?”

Gadreel blushed. “No, my arm feels better today. I can manage.”

“I could always ask Jo to help you.”

That seemed to doubly fluster the knight, amusing Sam to no end. Gadreel stammered, “I-I wouldn’t think she’d like that, even in jest.”

“Don’t tell her I said so, but I think she would.” He took a sip of his tea. “Do you fancy her?”

Gadreel was impossibly flushed and his eyes darted over the table. “No, I’d never... I mean, she’s—I don’t know what I’d ever say to her.”

“Gad, have you even—” it hit Sam fully, then. Gadreel had been raised _in a castle,_  around nobility, and imprisoned by the time he was 17. He may never even have _lain with a woman_. Was it too uncomfortable a subject to ask if he’d lain with a _man?_  Sam started to flush and he knew he was in the middle of an awkward turn in the conversation, so tried to recover as he stood up and went to his wardrobe. “- _courted_  a maiden?”

“No, sire.” He sighed and rubbed his red face. “Is it that obvious?”

“Don’t scorn yourself for it. You hardly had the opportunity.”

The knight seemed at a loss for what to say. He cleared his throat and turned to watch Sam. “I’ve long put such things out of mind.”

Sam shrugged. “I think you’ll find that not many people of any importance really care one way or the other.”

Gadreel nodded. “I’d rather not be talked about. In any way, actually.”

“Why not?” He pulled out a long, gray tunic and a pair of dark blue breeches, and tossed them on the bed.

He swallowed his last bite and went to look at the clothing. “I was raised to be an honorable man. That wasn’t the path I took. If I could start over, I would. Yet… my name is tarnished. Castiel—I’ve heard of him. Even locked away, I heard of his campaign to fight Lucifer and his herald Lilith. His only thought was to murder me.”

That might have been more words than Sam had heard him speak at once. Sam also wasn’t sure exactly where to begin to respond to that statement. He cleared his throat. “Castiel... hasn’t been himself lately. To him, the only thing your name represents is the fall of his homeland.”

Gadreel was quiet as he touched the tunic on the bed, and Sam began to flounder in regret. Then Gadreel said, “In my worst moments, I laughed at the thought of redemption. I was a fool, and became a monster because of it. I became... the villain. In truth, I was a hapless parable of a trusting idiot. If I changed my name, I thought… if I was not immediately recognized—then I could shed that weight.”

Sam felt a lump in his throat and worked the socks in his hands. “If you would prefer… We can still call you Ezekiel.”

He paused, considering the offer, then shook his head. “No. That’s another man’s name. And I cannot hide what I’ve done under another person’s good deeds.” Gadreel dropped the fur he held around his shoulders.

Sam couldn’t help himself and glanced down, then turned away, knowing that his cheeks were reddening. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t exactly sure what he was apologizing for. Gadreel was only wearing the strap that held his shoulder in place, why was that so disarming? Why the long speech about his history? “It would have been easy for you to start over, you could have... just become a farm hand or a barkeep.”

The knight undid the sling around his arm and held his bicep as the strap dropped free, flexing his hand and wincing as he moved his elbow a little away from his body. “I would not have been able to do any good while pouring wine for weary travelers.” He lifted the tunic over his head gingerly and took his time threading his arms though the sleeves. It was light and had a few holes at the seam around the back of the neck; Sam wouldn’t miss it.

“Not one for the humble kind of life?”

“Would that be any kind of redemption?” He picked up the strap and looped it over his head and injured shoulder.

“I suppose not.” Sam closed the chest and went to pull on his boots. He wasn’t now sure what they’d do with the Athean after he had recovered. Perhaps they’d find a place for him in the garrison. 

The prince went to the window to look out onto the courtyard. It looked as though Benny’s and Dean’s horses were still gone. He could see the tower where Meg resided in the tiny, round room at the top, and there was a thin trail of smoke pouring from her chimney, but her window faced west, angled away from the castle. He looked down to watch the well in the middle courtyard and the few children who lived in the keep, playing around it in the dirt with stone marbles. **  
**

Gadreel cleared his throat and Sam turned, finding him dressed and ready, his sling tied over his shoulder as before.

"Good," said Sam. "Now, let me show you about the place." He went to the door and led Gadreel to the hallway.  "We're in the main keep. There are a few other buildings outside of it, like the stable and the smithy, but it's a small castle and we keep our soldiers garrisoned here." He looked back when he reached the stairs and found the knight behind him, distracted by the cracked window panes in the hall.

Sam waited for him to catch up and continued before he could apologize. “When we came to this place, my brother and I... we thought we would never clear the courtyard and see the well run clear. It had been abandoned for fifty years, so we had to rebuild it just so the roof wouldn’t leak.” He gestured to the hallway that extended beneath his own room, next. “Our library, some other rooms. Where Kevin sleeps, too.”

The bottom floor had a series of arches around a large, grand table and a partially open front door with a guard posted in the shaft of light, looking outside. Sam turned right and headed to the kitchens where the smell of frying pork made his mouth water. “This is where we usually find Benny. But Ellen’s filling in.”

“More like I let Benny fry any damnable thing he can hunt up.” Ellen banged a spoon on an empty pot and Gadreel jumped where he stood in the doorway.  “You look good, Sam.”

Sam let her pat him on the shoulder and gestured to his companion. “This is my guest, Gadreel.”

“Oh, I hear he’s the cause of your sudden good health,” she said good-naturedly, turning her back to both of them to set some onions in a pan.

“In a manner of speaking, m’lady,” Gadreel spoke softly, perhaps slightly embarrassed by such an informal conversation.

Sam shrugged. He’d have to get used to the way they did things here. The stilted ways of the noble courts had never had any hold over their lives. “Ellen here is a bit of a gossip. If I need to send a letter, she’s guaranteed to be faster than writing it down.”

Ellen gave an undignified squawk at that and tossed a potato at the prince, who grabbed it out of the air deftly. He was a little amazed that doing so was so effortless—he felt better than he had in months, perhaps even a year.

Gadreel laughed softly in the doorway at the exchange. It didn’t last long, but seemed genuine. Sam clapped him on the shoulder and led him out of the kitchen, snacking on the potato.

There was a sound of flapping wings as a raven flew in and sat on one of the high beams. Sam sighed—he wasn’t sure how to prevent the little black scavengers from nesting. Gadreel looked up at the bird too as it echoed through the great room, where the oft-unused throne sat.

“This castle is now called Thelema, since my brother and I reclaimed and rebuilt it,”  he informed Gadreel, who looked only minimally impressed. Perhaps he’d seen too many rusty hinges or pinpricks of light through thatch roofs. Sam had never seen an Athean castle but had heard that they were grand, gleaming structures. The Winchester manse felt comprised mostly of things they’d had to make the repairs themselves, with Bobby’s help. **  
**

Sam took Gadreel immediately to the bustle of the courtyard and showed him where the barracks and provisional quarters were located, mostly just so he would know where the doorways led. He pointed up at one particular tower. “And that’s where the witch, Meg, lives.”

Gadreel hesitated before speaking. “It looks rather drafty up there.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s her usual way. She doesn’t like being around too many folk.”

He nodded, lips thinning as a few children shrieked and continued to play tag over by the entry to the grain stores.  Sam wasn’t sure if the children offended or bewildered the other man, but in any case he’d have to get used to them. Neither he nor his brother could ever deny an orphan a safe place to dwell. Mostly, they slept in the warmer rooms above the stable.

Sam walked to the forge, passing the stables where a horse was being washed. It looked as though Bobby had seven or so swords ready for polishing and sharpening on a worktable, and was hammering out another on the anvil. Gadreel watched quietly as Sam went to pick up a blank sword and a file.

Bobby glanced over and smiled. “Good to see you, kid.”

Sam grasped the blade and nodded. “Thanks, Bobby. You getting any rest?”

“You know I don’t like to sit on my laurels.” The old smith turned from his anvil and quenched the blade. “I saw your grandfather on the wall the other day.” **  
**

Sam froze. “You did? Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you fetch me?”

“You’ve been sick. He didn’t say anything, and he was gone too fast. I know he’s your new project, but you have to get well first.” The older man shrugged. His beard was singed and he looked dirty, like he’d been working for half a day already. He glanced at Gadreel’s arm in the sling but didn’t look at him again. **  
**

“Bobby... take a rest, I’ll work the anvil for a bit. This is Gadreel... he can probably assist.”

Gadreel’s face looked calm, but weirdly expressionless. He nodded at Bobby. “Hello.”

Bobby grumbled and headed out the door. “Don’t burn this place down,” he said over his shoulder as an afterthought.

If Gadreel thought anything of the smith’s rudeness, or puzzled over the mention of Sam’s grandfather, he didn’t mention it. Sam set about sharpening and polishing the blades. After a full minute where he didn’t see the Athean move from where he stood, he pointed to a set of tools on the bench. “Can you find me a grindstone over there?”

Gadreel did something a little odd, then. He went to the bench and picked up a set of blade tongs, and presented them to Sam.

Sam frowned slightly at the tool, watching his hand wobble and tremble. “Gadreel, I asked for the stone.” He pointed past him to the greyish brick that he needed to use to get the spurs off from Bobby’s initial hammering.

Gadreel dropped the tongs, face twisting in revulsion, then fumbled at the brick. “I—I’m sorry, sire. Sorry.” His voice was thick with fear.

Sam set the sword down and touched the knight’s elbow, only to have him jerk his body away and walk swiftly out of the smithy. The prince looked at the whetstone that had been fumbled to the floor, and closed the damper on the forge itself. The look on Gadreel’s face was deeply concerning, but if he burned the place down Bobby would never let him forget it. He went outside, and blinked against the bright stab of sunlight against his eyes.

He looked for a flash of Gadreel’s blue tunic out in the courtyard and worried when he didn’t see him among the people near the gate or the barracks. If he’d fled the castle, Sam would have to find someone else for Meg to bind him to, or slowly wither and die. He would never speak of how much the prospect of that terrified him.

To Sam’s left he heard a soft murmured voice, and he turned to see the freshly-washed horse standing with her head against Gadreel’s chest. The thinner man had his hand on her neck, softly stroking her mane. His eyes were closed.

A few years ago, Sam would have chastised Gadreel or said something about his suddenly strange disposition, but he suspected that he knew what was the matter with him. The memories of being imprisoned might be rising to the surface, instead of staying buried where they should. He leaned against the fence around the pen and watched in silence until Gadreel stepped back.

Gadreel looked crestfallen.  Of course the knight knew that he’d been watching him. He avoided Sam’s eyes, perhaps embarrassed.  The prince cleared his throat. “Let’s go back to my room.” **  
**

“Yes, I… believe I might be tired.” He walked out of the pen and closed it.

Sam internally debated whether to speak of the tongs, or how frightened Gadreel had looked. He doubted he knew what to say, even if their experiences were similar.

In Sam’s room, it was Gadreel who finally spoke. “I shouldn’t have left you so quickly. In the forge, you needed my assistance.”

Sam shook his head. “I understand that the heat can be disorienting.”

Gadreel ignored the easy excuse that Sam had all but handed to him. “You said that I was imprisoned for nineteen years. But... It seemed like only... a dozen at most. I don’t want to think about it.”

“You don’t have to speak of it if you don’t want to, Gadreel.”

The knight nodded and went to sit down, still obviously distressed, his hands picking at his clothing.

Sam paced a little, knowing he couldn’t leave him alone for long.  Perhaps he didn’t even want to, and that concerned him more. If only someone could just be there to keep the Athean company—Sam’s eyes fell on the bone sitting on the table by the bed. He’d seen Gadreel with it and it had seemed a comfort; Meg said it conjured a ghost of someone he carried fond memories of. Perhaps even someone he loved. **  
**

As soon as his fingers closed around it, he felt a jolt like fingernails down his back and squeezed his eyes shut. He thought that maybe he’d see Jess, or maybe even Amelia. But if the bone fed off of his dead loves—how far back would it go? He hoped it wouldn’t go back as far as Amy Pond and his first kiss. That could get painfully awkward.

He opened his eyes and saw Ruby. Just the notion that Meg’s magic would think he loved her most was enough to floor him. “No,” he blinked, lungs twisting painfully as he took in her bloody, hole-riddled shift and her sad, dark eyes. He hadn’t seen her face when she died, she’d robbed him of that and turned away, trusting to her last breath that Sam would never harm her, despite what she’d done. She had known that he’d loved her as much as he’d ever loved anyone.

“Sire?”

Sam groaned shallowly and dropped the bone. It clicked on the floor and rattled away as the prince fell to his knees. He almost apologized as Gadreel took his arm and helped him to his feet, but he knew his eyes were wet and he was gulping air like a fish, so he settled down on the bed, hoping that his body shaking wasn’t nearly as visible as it felt.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left it out. It was careless of me.”

Sam rolled onto his back. The horror of seeing Ruby in front of him faded to a familiar, dull ache, leaving him feeling winded. “I just need a rest.”

Gadreel pulled a blanket over him and fidgeted with the edge, kneeling close on the bed. Sam looked at him only briefly and then turned away from him onto his side, covering his face and starting to cry silently. 

It wasn’t  _fair_ that she would be the illusion of lost love that Meg’s enchantment held for him. As though he needed to be reminded of his weakness, of his duplicity in her schemes. All she had to do was offer herself to him, and he would have walked until his feet were bloodied.

The Athean seemed not to know what to do about Sam’s silent shuddering, so he paced the room, which the prince ignored. Eventually, Gadreel laid down beside him on the bed, under his own cloak, facing Sam’s shoulders. Sam could feel his eyes on the back of his head but said nothing, eventually forgetting his presence next to him and drifting off into exhausted sleep. **  
**

 

* * *

 

 

Kevin closed the door to the room quietly. “I don’t have a lot of time, here, Castiel.”

“Good. Neither do I.” Castiel already felt the throb of the light that Kevin needed to read. It penetrated his eyelids like an unbearable red that nearly sizzled in his bones. He picked up a scarf and wrapped it around his head, tying it tight. It deadened the flames of the candles, however nothing but complete darkness could assuage it completely. It was, to put it mildly, irritating. **  
**

“Where did you want to start?”

“On my shelves, there’s a book with a yellow spine and red lettering.” He could see it, in his mind. Kevin got up, shifted a few books around, and blew some dust off.

“I found it,” he said.

“Good. Quill on the shelf, I believe. Ink will be nearby.”

Kevin cracked open the little book and fluttered the pages. “Castiel, I can’t read this, it’s old Athean.”

He sighed in exasperation. “I _know,_  Kevin. You’ll have to learn.”

“I thought the letters would at least… why doesn’t it use the same letters?”

“The written word has many forms,” Castiel was losing patience rapidly. “You need to learn the letters if you’re to do anything meaningful in my place.”

Kevin snorted. Castiel was cross, but he understood—Kevin was up before him and went to sleep later, seeing to both his duties and Dean’s urgent matters in his absence. “Just what do you think I’ll be able to do when I finally learn to read these books?”

“Lower your voice,” he chastised him. “Teaching this to a non-Athean would carry a death sentence if my homeland wasn’t in shambles. It’s an ill-advised pursuit.”

“Then why spend ti—” Kevin was interrupted by Castiel slapping the table’s surface.

He barely managed to keep his voice neutral. “Kevin, with the magic I had at my disposal, I could transport myself over leagues in an instant.”

“Oh. I thought... I thought Dean was exaggerating.” He blinked.

“Not about that.” Castiel’s head was starting to throb again. “Now, that little yellow book has in it a few children’s fables, nothing more.”

“Can all Atheans move like that?”

“Are all the men of this land Winchesters?” Castiel deadpanned.

Kevin sighed. “I understand. Why me, then?”  

“Because I know how smart you are.”

Kevin scoffed.

“You are. Prepare to take notes on the alphabet. There are 35 basic characters.”

He managed to smile at the frantic rustling of paper and the scratch of the quill as Kevin tested with a few short lines. “I’m ready,” he said, sounding resolute.

“ **ა** is pronounced _an_  and looks like an upside down question mark… open part facing left, without a dot.” Castiel waited as Kevin breathed, telling himself he must be finding it on a page.

“I found it. Okay. It would be so much easier if there were just a… simple translation document.”

“That’s what we’re creating, Kevin.” He knew he sounded irritated and didn’t care.

A quill scratched on some parchment, and he could tell that the young man was writing notes on the book’s pages itself. “I understand, sir.”

Castiel rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I hope that what I give you is enough to help. Before my eyes went entirely, things were... blurry. I hope I can remember enough to translate these books.”

“By _blurry_  you don’t simply mean with your eyes, do you?”

Castiel was quiet for a long while, until even _he_  found the silence awkward. “The next letter in the alphabet is **ბ** —ban… a sort of upside-down, lowercase q.”

Kevin gulped audibly and scratched notes. “Next.”

“Don’t tell Dean that I’m forgetting things. I’m just as useful to him. Just do what I asked and _learn everything I tell you._ ”

He was a little frightened that he understood the soft rustle of Kevin’s nodding before he spoke. “I’ll do my best,” replied the porter.

Castiel took a few deep breaths and continued. He hoped Kevin would catch on quickly. There seemed to be no chance that his sight would return or that his memory would improve. And Kevin was smart, far more clever than most of the people he’d ever encountered west of Athos. He had potential and passion, and it reminded Castiel that his own commanders had once said the same thing about him, before his passion made him “uncontrollable” and  “ineffective.”  

Kevin sighed. “How long, realistically... how long do you think that this will take.”

“Perhaps you’ll learn the language in a year. Perhaps you’ll turn yourself into a goat.”

“Anything is possible,” replied Kevin dryly as he made a scratching of new letters on paper. Castiel tried to take comfort in the sound, being that it was entirely familiar to him, like a well-worn old coat. He managed a tiny smile.

 

* * *

  


The road back to Thelema was unfortunately all uphill. It never bothered Charlie when she was headed to the castle from the lowland marshes, or from Lumley, but from the eastern side it seemed an endless procession of steep switchbacks. There was only one place suitable to make camp, and it was small for the more than twenty people that she was bringing home along with the escort from Lumley.

She dismounted and left her horse next to a low tree, pulling off the bedroll and bag, dumping them both at the side of the camp near Garth. Charlie longed for her bed. “Do you have any venison left?”

Garth always looked bashful, and it was kind of disarming. “A little. Not enough for everyone.”

“They might not eat much, then. We can maybe share the dried cranberries, we had more than a pound.”

He shrugged. “It only seemed that way. I’ll pass around what’s left. It’s not great, but I guess they won’t starve in one night.”

Charlie watched him walk off to see to the food situation. It was sometimes startling how her world had shrunk to a seemingly endless avalanche of mundane tasks involving things as simple as eating dinner.  

She sighed and looked critically at the group of Atheans with them. Their customs weren’t very different, but their clothes were filthy; some of them clearly mended to cover months of constant use. After a day of watching them, she saw that a few kept their eyes on the treelines, looking back for pursuers like Anna did. She wondered if the others were also more than what they seemed.  The way they moved didn’t really give anything away, but she doubted that the group was being pursued for simply deserting lands.

Despite whatever the silver-tongued Atheans had said to him. Adam generally wasn’t very trusting, and usually very skeptical of new information as it appeared, but he seemed less likely to trust the people that were going to sleep near him. He didn’t just keep his enemies close, he saw new ones in every corner. **  
**

It was a wise approach, Charlie had to admit. The ones that wanted to be close to the Winchesters were either insane, desperate, or trying to slip a dagger between their ribs. Sometimes all three. Charlie tried to put it out of her mind as she took her cloak off and draped it over her saddlebags, from where she retrieved a piece of hard bread to stave off her hunger.

Charlie walked away from the camp, waving off the guard from Lumley that tried to escort her. She craved solitude and quiet, and a brief respite from the authority she held over these people. She sat down on a log and listened to the wind passing through the trees.

It was nice. Charlie thought about her room and her books. They’d arrive at Thelema tomorrow, and she’d happily stuff herself into a volume of fantasy for at least a few hours. She’d ask Jo to bring her food and make sure she delivered it while she was just getting out of the bath, and maybe even pretend to be embarrassed, or perhaps she’d let her robe drop to the floor. She hoped Jo would blush. **  
**

The breeze rustling branches was the only noise for a long while, until the sound of slow footsteps brought her back to reality. Charlie sat up and looked toward the noise and saw Anna, still dressed in her nun’s habit, trudging slowly down the slope towards her.

Anna forever seemed to be looking at Charlie, like a painting that followed her with its eyes. It wasn’t that her gaze was unwelcome, it was simply... haunting. For once, though, Anna was looking down at her feet, concentrating on her footing and holding the heavy black skirt out of the way of her toes. Finally, Charlie could examine her face without being so unnerved by her stare. She came to the immediate conclusion that Anna was startlingly pretty, with fine features and a mouth whose shape was especially pleasing. **  
**

Charlie cleared her throat and waited.

Anna glanced up for a moment and nodded. “Evening, Lady Bradbury. I apologize if I am rude. I have been told by many that my manners aren’t as well-appointed as they should be.” Anna passed between a pair of oaks, looking over her shoulder to Charlie. The camp up on the hill was quiet.

“You do seem a little strange,” Charlie said, once she could be certain that no one was near enough to hear her speak. “I don’t mean any offense.” **  
**

“Strange is a kind way of putting it, m’lady,” replied Anna. “I know that you’ve found me looking at you. I’ll try to stop if it disturbs you.”

Charlie knew she was making a little bit of a face as she tried to twist her words into some semblance of order. “I don’t... I mean… that is to say, I’m not insulted by your gaze. I just... I’m not sure of the cause of it.” **  
**

Anna raised her chin and pulled the heavy robe around herself a little tighter, seeming strangely defiant. “It’s because you’re beautiful. But more importantly, you’re wearing armor obviously made only for you, and the way you can ride a horse, and command your people—it’s enrapturing.”

Charlie’s mouth felt clumsy. “I... well... that’s because I’ve had much practice.”

Anna’s eyes avoided hers now and her cheeks were pink. “I wonder what other sorts of practice you might have had. And if you’d like to have more, m’lady.”

Lady Bradbury shot to her feet as soon as she understood Anna’s meaning. “Um,” she said,  and immediately laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that we only met today.”

Charlie knew she was making a little bit of a face as she tried to twist her words into some semblance of order. “I don’t... I mean… that is to say, I’m not insulted by your gaze. I just... I’m not sure of the cause of it.” **  
**

“Oh. I’m... not like that.” She bit her lip. “Well, I am, but I won’t... Anna, you don’t have to give yourself as trade.”

Anna wiped her face. “I’m sorry, Lady Bradbury. I have nothing else to offer.”

“You can fight, can’t you?”

“Not as well as some, but yes,” replied Anna, looking up at the sky.

“What about magic,” Charlie asked.

“I have a little facility with it. I thought that it would make you trust me less, if that were possible.”

“I’m standing alone with you in a forest; I believe I trust you a little already.”

“But why do you trust me?” Anna’s eyes were wet. Charlie reached out, carefully touching her elbow.

“You were honest with me immediately this morning. I could have had your people expelled from these lands, but I could see that you were desperate.”

“Desperate people are known to be dangerous.” Anna whispered.

Charlie withdrew her hand. “Yes, I know that.”

“Our commanders are desperate, and... I could be killed for speaking this aloud,” her eyes darted to Charlie’s face, down to her mouth, and then away again.

“If there is something you would tell me, I can keep it in confidence.”

“You shouldn’t. You should tell anyone who will listen. But please, keep my name out of it,” Anna pleaded.

“I will.”

“There is magic that can force obedience. Force soldiers to attack. They can even force true loyalty.”

“I’ve never heard of this.”

“It’s a terrible thing, and even those who practice it know that it’s wrong. Naomi knew, and she told me it upset her, but she still had a man cut out his own tongue for blasphemy.” Anna’s voice was ragged. **  
**

“You saw this?”

She gulped and nodded. “Yes. I was.. I don’t mean to sound stupid, or naïve, but I was so loyal to the triumvirate when I was younger.  But the man who cut out his tongue couldn’t stop himself. He had to. I realized that the sort of allegiance I gave freely was like a boot on the neck of everyone I knew.  It wasn’t the only reason why I left, but it made me realize I had to leave Athos.” **  
**

Charlie didn’t know what else to say, really. The implications were too stunning. “I’m sorry.”

“That wasn’t nearly as bad as when I was caught, and brought back. I’ve been on this side of the river before, m’lady.”

“How long ago were you here?”

She had a bitter smile when she glanced at Charlie. “Before the Winchesters claimed a throne.”

Charlie nodded. “I’ll take you to them. They will want to know of this.”

Anna simply nodded, wiping her nose. “I should return to the camp. As should you, Lady Bradbury.”

“Please, you may simply call me Charlie.”

Anna looked at the setting sun and nodded, turning away to walk back up the slope. 


	7. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Charlie, and Adam are all about to return home, and Gadreel is nearly foolish enough to think that he could be happy in the castle.

The forest stream was low and the rocks that emerged were coated with slick algae, which made Dean’s progress difficult. His frustration seethed through his skin; he was certain that he had trod these same waters for hours and noticed no progress. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he tried to recall where he’d left his horse again. No easy answer came to mind, but he didn’t question it; just kept walking up the river. Sun beamed through a thick forest canopy and he looked up when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. What he saw was a figure hunched down in the water with a man’s thin white arms and legs, but a wolf’s pelt wrapped over his head and shoulders, and down his back. It took a moment for Dean to realize that the blood dried on his flanks wasn’t fresh, but from the wolf’s skin slung over his body.

The man kept his head down, the feral, yellow eyes of the dead wolf still glittering as though he used them to see by. The pupils rolled towards Dean and then the man’s limbs started to skitter and twitch, taking him slowly and hesitantly to the stream’s bank. He squatted, waiting, hands scratching slowly at the algae on a boulder. 

“Uh, hey.” Dean gulped, glancing down at the man’s groin, which he’d made no effort to hide. 

There was no reply. He wasn’t sure that it was rational to expect one. With a sigh, Dean drew his sword and took a step forward. 

With a tiny huffed breath, something that could be heard as a laugh or a growl, the wolf-man scrambled away from Dean, up the bank of the stream  to where a dark path twisted between the roots of two massive trees. 

The prince blinked as the man turned to wait for him, just out of the sunlight, standing straight in the shadows. He thought that maybe he could see a grin under the tattered flesh of the wolf’s snout. 

Dean followed him between the trees and into a forest so dense that the trees grew together like canyon walls. The path was sometimes so narrow that he had to turn his body to the side and scrape his breastplate along rough bark. At some point in the short walk he realized that the closeness of the trees was impossible, and he was aware suddenly that it had to be a dream that he was mired in. He looked up to find the man in the wolf pelt gone. 

The revelation was stifled as soon as he saw Pamela’s hut emerge down the path, a place he’d seen in flames years before. The path widened and he rushed ahead, shoving the door open without knocking. Pamela was standing by her hearth, tossing another log on to shower sparks up the squat chimney.

“Pam?!” Dean remembered the sword in his hand and sheathed it immediately. “I’m… this is just a dream, but…” he trailed off as she turned to him, eyes clear. He remembered the bleeding sockets that she’d had when she was alive; blamed himself for it so much that he had trouble remembering what she’d looked like when she was whole.

“Well, you know, you’re a little hard to get ahold of when you’re awake.” She dusted off her hands and gestured to her small table where a chessboard and a couple dozen pieces sat. “But as far as this being a dream, well…” She shrugged and went to sit. “Are you going to plant your ass or stand there with the door open?”

Dean obeyed, moving slowly, taking in the details of her hut. Many of her things were similar to Meg’s paraphernalia, but Pam’s place had windows and enough space where the rafters weren’t close enough to make him duck.  “Who was that guy with the wolf pelt?” he asked, remembering his unsettling, jerky movements. 

“Oh, that was Ash. I haven’t finished putting him back together. It’ll be a bit before he can make proper words.” She cleared her throat and gestured to the board. “Could you set the pieces up, please?”

Dean stood there dumbly for a moment, pondering what she said. He shook himself and touched the board. “I barely know how to play, but fine.” 

She nodded and stared at him while he tried to perform the task she’d set him to. A few pawns were missing from the black side, and the pieces were of different materials—some wood, a knight and a king from poured lead, and a bone pawn that raised the hairs on the back of his hand to touch. It took him too long to realize he had only one rook and one bishop on his side, and the bishop was cracked and felt as though it could break at any moment. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Dean asked her rhetorically. “I can’t play the game if I can’t even set it up to start...” 

She stared at him, and he leaned back on the small chair to avoid her gaze. “You’ve got to fix it, Dean. You’re starting the game without a complete set.” 

“This is a stupid dream,” he grumbled and split his bishop. 

When her silence caused him to look up, she was staring at the split piece in his hands. He immediately filled with dread and tried to fit it back together. 

“This is just a dream, right?” He gulped and looked down at the pieces, trying to understand what Pam was trying to show him.  

“Well, you _ are _ asleep.” She snatched the pieces from his hand and tied a piece of blue string around the head of the bishop to hold it together. Then she set it back down in the middle of the board. 

“Oh, gods—this is about Cas. What’s happening to him? Do you know?” 

She tilted her head. “It’s about you, Dean. What you’re doing has consequences.” 

He banged the table and shook both sides of the board. Her pieces tumbled over into a single pile of tiny, mutilated corpses. “Just tell me, damnit. Don’t give me this clandestine bullshit.” 

“Fine. You think you don’t have enough pieces to fight, so you’ll overreach with the ones you have. You’ll take in mismatched ones to shore up your ranks, and never recognize the poisoner.” Pam reached over to his side of the board and touched the pawn made of bone, and it crumbled to dust under her sharp fingernail.  

“Tell me there’s a cure for Castiel. Even if you still hate him, you have to help me, Pamela. Please.” 

“I  _ am _ helping you, Dean.” She explained carefully, for once her voice absent of sarcasm. “I wish I could do more, but I… well, I  _ am  _ dead.” 

He gulped and looked down at his pieces again. “I know who the traitor is. I have to go.” 

Pam reached over to grasp his arm and Dean jerked, jarring the table. 

The knight on the left side of the board fell over with a snap, and he awoke in the inn, teeth chattering. The window was still open, and through it he could see the sky pinkening before dawn.

Dean could be home before nightfall if he left right away. He rolled out of the cot and put his boots on, then left without breakfast.  

****

* * *

The room brightened with a sharp-edged beam that traced the wall and slowly bowed down to touch the bed at the far end, shining directly onto Gadreel. He woke when it shone on his eyes, still wearing the clothes from the day before. 

In the last night, he hadn’t entirely jostled out of sleep when Sam had rose from the bed to eat and read by candlelight, but Gadreel had been aware of his movements around the room, the minor noises he made as he shuffled, stretched, and chewed his food. It had been strangely familiar, as though his mind had already replaced Abner with this tall, strangely humble prince. 

The knight’s shoulder twinged, stiff, and Gadreel raised his head. His body felt heavy, weighted down by what he soon found was a second blanket. It was thick and quilted with worn velvet edges. He wiped his eyes and found Sam beside him, just stirring himself out of a sound sleep. 

“I woke you,” said Gadreel, his tone apologetic. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

Sam shrugged and stretched, joints creaking. 

“You’re much too young for your bones to make those sounds.” 

Sam shrugged. “I’m young, but I’ve lived a long time.” 

Gadreel yawned and nodded. “I’m old, and open skies unnerve me.” 

The prince laughed softly. “Really? Why?” 

He gestured vaguely to the ceiling. “I think you can guess, Sam.”

Sam was quiet for a moment and sat up slowly, back against the towering headboard. “Can you tell me who you see when you pick up the bone? How far back into your memory does it reach?”

“Oh,” said Gadreel, glancing away from Sam. “Not far. Abner was … my cellmate.”

“Did you love him?” 

Gadreel felt the blood drain from his face. He simply nodded and looked away, wanting to find the bone, to touch it again. 

“In what way?” Sam continued. 

He took a trembling breath and glanced to the prince, who looked concerned. “In every way.” 

Sam placed a hand on Gadreel’s head, which seemed odd, yet calming. It reminded Gadreel of his baptism.  He closed his eyes, sighing. After a moment, Sam said, “Why do you keep the bone, then? Doesn’t it cause you pain to see him?” 

“Yes, but … I would never see him again if I did not keep the token. And I miss him terribly.” 

Sam sighed heavily. "I've lost… everyone I've ever courted. More than one was killed because of me." Sam sounded like he was speaking around a lump in his throat.  

"Is that who you saw last night?"

Sam combed his fingers through his hair softly. "It was upsetting."

"I should have warned of the enchantment." Gadreel looked up at him and the prince shook his head. 

"I knew. I just thought that I would see — it's not important. I didn't want to see the one that I saw.” 

Gadreel almost asked him whom he’d loved that could hurt him so badly. Instead, he raised his good arm and put his hand on top of Sam’s where it rested in his hair. He wasn’t sure what he thought would happen, but as the moment sustained and grew, the knight found himself wondering why Sam tolerated him in his bed and didn’t make him sleep on the floor. He would be perfectly comfortable on the flagstone hearth or beside the wardrobe away from the window. The prince didn't have to treat him like he  _ mattered. _

He felt Sam’s fingers withdraw and was almost relieved until he realized how much he wanted his hand back in that hair. Being touched in such a manner was difficult — he craved it and yet he couldn’t relax. The prince cleared his throat and crawled closer until he was kneeling beside Gadreel.  

It was strange how quickly the older man could feel so out of his depth. This sort of tension was entirely foreign and unexpected. He wondered if the prince would kiss him. 

The prince held his gaze steadily and then softly touched his jaw below the ear.  

Gadreel shifted a little, just enough to pull away. 

“Your eyes are wet,” Sam whispered.

Gadreel flinched. “I’m sorry.”  

“Why, though? Do you even know why you are sorry? What do you keep apologizing for?” 

He took a deep breath that shook his frame. “For being alive, perhaps.” 

Sam set his hands on his shoulders, and then drew him into an embrace. “Did you ever try to kill yourself, when you were locked up?” 

Gadreel shifted in his arms and turned his head away. He nodded and wiped his face. 

“Gadreel, I…” The prince trailed off, hands rubbing the knight’s back. “…I’m grateful that you are here. Not just because you’re keeping me alive.”  

“You have to know that I was in no position to refuse you, Sam.” 

He nodded and sat back. “Yet I don’t think that you would have refused to help me, even if I were not a prince.” 

Gadreel nodded weakly in agreement and Sam’s fingers found his jaw, tilting his face up. 

He kissed his cheek gently, almost reverently.  “Would you refuse me now?” 

“No.” He spoke softly, not trusting his voice to be steady if he were any louder. 

Sam’s lips traced his own and then pressed against Gadreel’s, soft and parted. He yielded and tasted him timidly, leaning into Sam and raising his good hand to his chest. Gadreel touched his tongue to his and moaned shallowly, then pulled back for air, knowing his face was hot and reddened. 

The prince’s lips were glistening wet, and that alone would have made Gadreel blush. As it was, the sight sent his passions sharply southward, and the knight covered his groin with his wrist, praying that his body’s depravity wouldn’t draw attention. 

Sam must have noticed, but he looked bemused, perhaps even flattered. His hand traveled up Gadreel’s thigh and stopped just shy of a point of intimacy that Gadreel thought might make him faint. 

“Are you alright?” asked the prince. 

He nodded in response, then found his voice. “I’m… a bit overwhelmed.” 

“I can help you with that,” he glanced down to Gadreel’s lap. 

His eyes almost rolled back in his head at the thought and he surprised himself by shaking his head. “No, no, it’s fine, I just need a moment.” 

Sam nodded knowingly. “You liked it, though. Kissing me?” 

_ Liked _ wasn’t the right word.  _ Craved, _ perhaps. He surely needed it. “Yes,” he replied, eyes dropping again to the prince’s lips. 

He smirked. “Would you like to do that some more?” 

Gadreel nodded rapidly until Sam stopped him with a heated and forceful kiss, wrapping his long fingers around the back of the knight’s head, hair shielding his face from the light of the room. Gadreel should have felt trapped. He waited for the feeling of suffocation to interfere, to jolt him into sheer terror, but Sam moaned into his mouth and he answered with a small cry of his own. 

Sam guided him to lay down, never parting his lips from Gadreel’s. He learned quickly that Sam loved to suck at the tip of his tongue, loved to chase the corners of his mouth hungrily, and had no qualms about leading Gadreel to do what he liked with tiny moans of pleasure. The knight was surprised to find that Sam responded so fiercely to the scrape of teeth on his bottom lip.   

The knight tried to nibble again and Sam pulled back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t take advantage of you,” the prince whispered. 

“Nor I you.” Gadreel answered. 

Sam smiled softly. “Please, just swear to me that in this room, at least… you’ll treat me as an equal.” 

Gadreel blinked at him, realizing that Sam’s power over him made the prince uneasy.  “I swear it.” 

An incredulous look crossed Sam’s face. “I nearly slit your throat in my bathtub, Gadreel. You can’t possibly trust me.” Sam’s eyes were mere inches from his own, and seemed painfully uncertain. 

He fidgeted with the sling still tied around his arm. “If you treated me harshly, it is because I lied to you. I don’t understand why you allow me to stay so near. I could sleep on the floor or even in an adjacent room — ” 

“Do you want another room?” 

Gadreel shook his head. “No, I… I like being nearby, but I can’t help but feel unworthy.” 

Sam touched his chin and kissed him again. “You are worthy.” 

It was his turn to gently withdraw. “Don’t say that, Sam, you hardly know me.” 

Sam sighed. “I’m not an Athean, Gadreel. I don’t think what happened to you was fair.”

“Sam, I killed Abner.” His voice nearly died in his throat, and he ended up pushing out his friend’s name in an odd, raspy voice. 

The prince stilled and looked at him, trying to read his face. “You didn’t want to,” he said eventually.

Gadreel shook his head. “No, I loved him.” 

“Would he forgive you?” Sam sighed. 

“He already has.” 

“Then I do as well,” the prince replied. 

Gadreel took a deep breath and nodded, and Sam pulled him close against his chest where he could card his hand through the knight’s hair. Soon they would have to get up and navigate what was probably going to be an awkward breakfast, and that made Gadreel anxious. 

Gadreel kissed Sam’s chin and timidly placed his hand on his knee. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam sighed and claimed his lips again, but kept the kiss brief. “I want you to stay, even after I recover.” 

The knight nodded mutely, wanting only for the kissing to continue. Sam ran his hand lightly across the upper part of  Gadreel’s chest, right beneath his collar bones, before that palm came to rest above his heart. He wondered if Sam could feel the unpredictable pattering against his ribcage; it was not unlike the struggling wingbeats of frightened birds. He tried to keep his thoughts from what he wanted to do, how badly he desired to grab himself and stroke — it wouldn’t take long if the building heat in his groin had its way. 

Sam’s fingers brushed his neck, thumb pressing gently on his throat as he nipped his bottom lip. For all the kissing that had happened until then, the bites were still soft and tentative.  

Gadreel shuddered and reached up to thread his fingers into  Sam’s hair. His hips rolled of their own accord and a short, surprised inhalation caught in the back of his throat. 

Sam smiled against his mouth and gently wrapped his hand around the knight’s neck, his calloused fingers rasping against the tender spot behind and beneath Gadreel’s ear. 

He cried out in the bare space between kisses, the sensation of being touched somewhere so simple yet still so sensitive was startlingly good. He knew his skin was flushed pink and he was unable to stop his limbs from their increasing trembling. His fist clenched in Sam’s hair to keep him close, driven half-mad by his base urges. If he could draw breath he would be gasping the prince’s name. Dimly, he could hear the prince moaning his encouragement.

Sam let his neck go and kissed him so deeply it made it difficult to breathe. He felt consumed. Sam could surely hear his heart pounding, hear the rushing of blood that nearly deafened Gadreel. The beating in his chest built more and the knight’s breath was surprisingly forced into his lungs on tiny, uncontrollable gasps. His release was inevitable, and when it happened, he wrenched his head away, biting hard on his bottom lip. 

The warmth coursing through his body had found an outlet and his muscles gave a fine tremor under his skin. Gadreel’s cheeks began to burn with something akin to shame, but Sam, when he sat up and glanced down, didn’t seem mortified. If anything, the prince had a prideful smirk. 

“You didn’t need to be touched.” Sam’s face flickered with a smile as he took a shaky breath and shifted his hips uncomfortably. 

“I… no, but my pantaloons — ” 

Sam laughed, wiping his flushed face. “Breeches, please. Pantaloons sounds so… proper. And don’t worry, I have another dozen.” 

Gadreel couldn’t help looking down at Sam’s groin, where he could see the shape of him pressing against the fabric. The prince noticed his gaze and bit his lip. “Yeah, I… the sounds you were making, I’m surprised I didn’t mess myself as well.” 

“I could… er… I could try to help you, Sam.” He couldn’t quite look away from Sam’s lap, where he thought he maybe saw him twitch at the words. 

Sam leaned back next to him and reached to undo his breeches, biting his lip as he opened them and reached his long fingers inside to pull himself free. “I haven’t felt well enough to even think about doing this for months,” he murmured, a nervous smile playing at his lips.

Gadreel timidly reached over and grazed his thigh, then touched his wrist, sliding his hand along Sam’s to take over where he was gripping himself. The prince was hot and shivered when Gadreel squeezed near the tip. The knight tried not to think about how he was different from his last lover, but comparisons arose all the same. Sam was longer and thicker than Abner. He also didn’t close his eyes — just watched what Gadreel’s hand was doing to him. 

When he stroked him down to the base, Sam’s hips tensed and his mouth fell open. Gadreel couldn’t help himself —he  kissed the corner of the prince’s mouth and sucked at his bottom lip. He let his hand speed up, caressing the slick head with his fingers. 

He kept glancing down to drink in the sight of the leaking tip as he stroked it through his tight fist and groaned, feeling his own length twitch with interest. Gadreel hadn’t let Sam touch him before, but he wasn’t a prude. He just didn’t want to offend him or take advantage — he knew he was fundamentally a stranger to Sam. But Sam wanted him to treat him as an equal, or so he claimed. 

Sam’s eyes shot open when Gadreel pulled away and he made a small, needy noise in the back of his throat, almost like begging. The knight gulped and licked his lips, leaning down over Sam’s groin. “May I use my mouth?”

Sam rushed to pull his breeches down past his hips and nodded frantically. “Yes. Please.” 

Gadreel curled his bad arm against his side and laid his weight on his uninjured right. Without a hand to help him, he just lowered his mouth to lap at the underside of Sam’s cock. 

“Oh gods, please.” Sam’s hand helped to steer his cock into Gadreel’s mouth, and he kissed the tip before sucking it immediately into his mouth, slightly embarrassed to find that he enjoyed the taste. Sam was hot and warm, salty and almost sweet. 

Gadreel bobbed his head and made the prince curse and clench his teeth, keeping his noises muffled behind his lips. He thought maybe he could feel his heart beating when he slid down and let the head catch on his throat.  

Sam gasped unevenly. “I’m going to spill.” 

The knight put his hand on Sam’s thigh and sucked on the head. The hot jet of come that splashed across his tongue wrenched a cry out of Sam and filled Gadreel’s mouth. He gulped, pulling back and wiping his mouth. He took a ragged breath and looked at Sam, then away. 

It wasn’t that Gadreel felt ashamed, not really. That was such an intimate act and he’d given it so freely, maybe he was placing too much hope in Sam, trying to replace whom he’d lost. 

The prince surprised him then, reaching for his shoulder and pulling him close to kiss him, to taste himself on his lips. He was surprisingly gentle and chaste. Perhaps he sensed Gadreel’s uncertainty, or maybe he just felt like flattering him, but he didn’t look away from him as he licked the corner of his mouth clean. 

When his thoughts settled, Gadreel smiled softly.  “Was that okay?”

Sam muffled his laughter and nodded. “Yes, Gad.” 

He rubbed his aching shoulder, looking away as the prince tucked himself back in his breeches and fastened them. 

“I bet you’d like to bathe, eh?” Sam touched his shoulder where it was sore and smirked. 

Gadreel nodded softly. “That sounds pleasant.” 

Sam kissed him again, this time almost chaste. “We don’t need to leave the room for the rest of the day.” 

Gadreel blinked, and then a bashful grin spread across his face as he thought of all that implied. “Oh.”

 

* * *

 

 

Adam’s back ached. It had been seven days of continuous travel, hunger, and with only one pair of socks. He tried not to be in a sour mood, because he was almost certain that the peasants travelling with him had been walking dozens of leagues to get to their border crossing.

He was tired of the problems they’d inherited; the impenetrable walls that once kept the borders of their confederated kingdoms safe had first broken years before he even knew that he had brothers. He saw no way to solve it, and even returning to the mill where he’d grown up hiding his head in a grain silo was only a temporary solution. Dean’s grain silo was Castiel, and the war with Crowley. Their proximity to the border and the Athean civil war hadn’t mattered one whit to him until mere months ago when it became too much of a problem to ignore entirely. 

He rode at the head of their group and looked back often. Charlie wasn’t far behind and met his gaze steadily enough, but it was already obvious that she was infatuated by the woman, Anna. Perhaps that was why he saw the Atheans as a nest of vipers—she had immediately latched onto Charlie and it was plain to see that she’d seduced her in the woods. 

Adam didn’t think that his brother would turn them away, even if that was clearly wisest.  And the General of the Host, Michael, didn’t seem like a particularly noble person, but at least his motives were forthright. 

There was nothing to be done for it—the decision to give these people shelter wasn’t his. Hell, it probably wasn’t even Sam’s. And his eldest brother, Dean, thought that every one of them was a man like Castiel or had that potential. 

Rooftops rose up behind the cover of dense evergreens as they grew close to the castle. If he hadn’t known that Thelema laid buttressed against the mountain, he would have passed it by without seeing it at all. It also helped that the path forked, and it was now obvious that horses and wheeled carts traversed up the slope several times a week. 

The castle wasn’t a city or even a place that could be described as a town. Sure, a few dozen people were bunked there, but with the way it was defensively situated against the mountain, there was no room to expand into farmland. 

It was backed into a corner, and while it was a little suffocating, it was home. 

He waved from far off to the guard who opened the gate to him, and the ragged parade trudged inside. 

Adam’s dismount outside the forge drew Bobby’s attention and the ringing stopped for a moment. He looked away to motion the carts towards the stables and was immediately pulled into a giant hug from behind. 

“Back in one piece, eh?” Bobby still treated him like a kid, but reminded him so much of his father that he didn’t mind. 

“We lost a few guards down at the bridge.” Adam waited for Bobby to set him back down on his feet and patted down his clothes. 

Bobby looked up at the mass of refugees. “I don’t know that we have this many beds. Are any of them useful?” 

Adam sighed. “Maybe. I don’t know that I’d trust them.”  

“Nonsense. I just need another set of hands at the forge.” 

“Where the hell is Benny?” Adam glanced through the doorway, to where he’d usually see the large man bent over the bellows. 

Bobby chuckled. “He had some family stuff to see to.” 

“Well, you’re welcome to question them. I have to shed these clothes and wash myself.” 

Bobby chuckled. “You do smell a bit ripe, but I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“The amount of smoke you breathe in—surprised you can smell a damn thing.” He glanced at the Atheans, who were now staring at them. Adam cleared his throat. “Water for horses in the barn: kitchen is through those doors.” He pointed. “Our dormitories are above the barn and kitchens.”

Charlie patted Adam’s arm. “I’ll see that they’re settled. You go tell the kitchens and then go upstairs.”

“All right,” he leaned in close. “Listen, I know you’re fond of Anna, but sleep by yourself.”

The look of outraged bafflement she gave him as he left was enough to make him question what he’d seen of their meeting in the woods. Anna just stood too close to Charlie for her interest to be benign.

He trudged past the kitchens and looked in to find Ellen and her assistant chopping herbs. “We have about twenty more mouths for you to feed.” 

Ellen looked miffed, but that wasn’t an unusual expression on her face. “About twenty? What’s the actual number, kid?” 

She was probably the only one who had never called him by a title. He smirked. “Twenty-two. Make extra. They haven’t eaten in more than a day.”

“Have you had anything to eat?” 

“No. Can you send something up?” 

“I’ll send Naomi with a brisket.”

“I’ll be bathing.” He picked up an apple and backed out of the kitchen.  

Ellen guffawed. “She’ll close her eyes, then.” 

Adam snorted and went upstairs, turned the corner to their rooms, and heard something behind Sam’s door that made him pause mid-step. It sounded like a groan, and for a moment he thought that his brother was in pain, but then it was followed by another that sounded much more… like something Adam never wanted to contemplate. 

He nearly fled to his room with his face reddened, angrily ordered hot water for a bath, and undressed, throwing his clothes in a heap. Sam was fooling around with that Athean idiot, and Charlie was happily being seduced by the same.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The wooden gate swung inward as soon as Dean approached the wall, and he rode his perspiring horse to the barn directly, handed it off to a stable hand, and pulled his bag onto his back before bounding inside. The soldiers in their small garrison parted to allow him quick passage. 

He saw that there were more carts and horses, amongst them Charlie’s, and more people than he knew in the yard. Dean was thankful that his plain clothing allowed him to wade through them more or less unnoticed. 

Everything about his arrival was going so smoothly that he couldn’t help but smile, until he saw Meg in the hallway outside of his and Castiel’s door. 

“Meg, why are you up here?” He didn’t mean to drop his hand to his sword hilt, but his fingers caressed the metal unconsciously.

“Castiel won’t let me in,” she pouted. “Won’t come to see me, either. And I wrote him such a nice note.” 

“He knows you’re out here?” 

“Yeah, Dean, but he won’t open the damn door.”  

“Well then, you can’t come in. More to the point, you need to not be between him and I.” 

She huffed. “Fine. I’ll see myself out.” 

He waited for her to shuffle past him and to the stairs down before he knocked on the door. “Cas? It’s Dean. Let me in.” 

He heard a scraping noise as Castiel unbarred their chamber door. There was a hollow thump as he dropped the beam aside. 

He opened the door to his chambers to find them as dark as they could be during the day, the curtains drawn tight to emit only pinpricks of light from the setting sun. Cas was a shadow, slouched against the foot of the bed. Dean shut the door and let his eyes adjust to the lack of light. “Cas … say something.” 

“I’m here, Dean,” he rasped. 

“Were you sleeping?” 

“Trying to. It’s all right.”

Dean felt his way to the wardrobe and kicked his boots off. “Was it calm while I was out?” He spoke softly—from what Castiel had told him, his ailment sounded like a hangover that never faded.  

“Sam’s new bodyguard is a traitorous snake, and I threatened him.” Cas sighed. 

“Is Sam okay?” Dean’s protective streak was obvious. 

“All accounts and rumors speak of his returning health.”

“Then… perhaps it doesn’t matter.” 

Castiel huffed. “Was your journey fruitful?” 

Dean almost winced at the memory of the dead people from the village. “Suppose so. I let the Duke know about the situation.”  No need to mention it in this moment. “Are you well?” 

“No. I’m fine.” The smirk in his voice was obvious. 

“I’m going to figure out what this is. And fix it.” 

Castiel, for his part, gave an exasperated sigh. “That’s enough.” 

Dean untied his cloak and unbuckled his belt, shedding both over a large chair he kept near the window, on his side of the bed. “I won’t just let this happen.”

His tone was sharp. “Dean, I may never recover.”

“I’ll be with you for that, too.” He pulled the chain shirt over his head with a soft clinking noise.

Castiel stood with a rustle of his robe. “Don’t undress without me.” 

Dean paused, a smirk on his lips. “Come closer, then?” 

He could make out his silhouette as he slowly stood and walked towards him, holding his hands out just a little away from himself to feel for Dean. 

The prince touched Castiel’s hand as he drew close, and pulled him gently in further until he felt his breath on his cheek. His kiss brushed close across his jaw and caught his earlobe—Dean could feel where his lover had blindfolded himself, where he had tried to shut out any light that would hurt his eyes. He was reminded with a shudder of Pamela’s split chess piece, tied together after he broke it in half.

Cas’ wise and nimble fingers found Dean’s shirt hem and pulled it up, over the chain vest that the prince wore. “On one hand,” he spoke softly against Dean’s ear, “—I appreciate the … anticipation of the removal of layers. But the process, it’s entirely too long.” He nipped the curve of his ear. “Talk to me, Dean. Tell me what you want.” 

Cas always knew how to arouse him, even when he was in a poor mood. He had to move his legs apart so that his breeches weren’t quite so uncomfortable. “I want to make you happy, Cas.” 

Castiel’s fingers pressed gently against Dean’s lips. “Tell me how you’ll do that. If you please, do so in lurid detail.” 

The prince groaned and reached for his lover’s hips, pressing him close to his body, kissing him greedily for a moment until Cas pulled away. Dean conjured a reply. “I think… I could spend an hour on my knees with you on my tongue, until you can’t help but find relief.”

Castiel chuckled and pulled at the ties of Dean’s breeches. “And where will I find my… relief?” 

Dean would be on the ground humping his leg like a dog if he only asked. “Where it would please you most. Perhaps inside me.” 

It was Castiel’s turn to groan. “I wish I could take you as I once did. Bend you over a barrell and hold you there while I have my way with you.” 

He closed his eyes, not that there was much difference in the dark room. “Let me serve you this time. Lay down and order me. I’ll be your servant.” 

Castiel shoved Dean’s breeches past his hips and grabbed his swollen cock, squeezing him and pumping him through his fist. “Undress me.” 

Dean held back a cry and had to command his fingers to work, to do something other than clench and bunch Castiel’s clothing. He found a button and pulled at it, popping it off his tunic and to the floor. 

Cas made a small bark of laughter and stroked Dean from base to tip. “Good, but you’ll need to find that later.”

Dean leaned to kiss him and then pulled the half-open garment up over his head. 

Castiel growled, muffled by the bunched fabric of his shirt. “On the bed. You’ll ride me this time.” 

The prince urged him backwards until Castiel fell back on the covers and crawled back to lay fully across their large bed. His breathing was ragged and echoed up in the high-vaulted chamber. Dean busied himself with kicking off his remaining clothing, then turned his attention to pull Castiel’s breeches down past his hips and then off. 

“I might need help keeping quiet,” Dean let his fingers trace the jumping muscle in his thighs, which made Cas huff a little breath. 

“Dean, just hurry.” 

He didn’t like the urgency in his lover’s voice, the way he almost sounded pained. “I got you, Cas.” Dean reached for the odorless salve they used as lubricant and climbed on top of Castiel.  He kissed him under his jaw and felt his adam’s apple jump against his lips, straddling him heavily so that their hips could slot together.

Castiel’s hands traced his sides and dug into his shoulders when he rolled his hips up. “You smell terrible.” He chuckled. 

Dean, with his legs splayed wide, laughed and grunted as his slicked fingers breached his opening. “Yeah, I know. But  _ someone _ couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.”

Castiel’s nails hadn’t been trimmed in a little while—not that Dean really minded when he dug them into his back. His breathing was harsh and stirred Dean’s hair. 

Dean moved on to get him inside himself too quickly, but he knew the sting would subside once he could stretch around Cas a little more. It wasn’t that he wanted to rush things, but he had lost track of how many weeks it had been since the last time, and he didn’t want to only be able to have  _ this _ with Cas just once a month. 

Cas grabbed his neck and Dean shuddered, because no matter how capable a leader he was in the field, in the bedchamber he needed to be manhandled. He knew he was leaking as he forced himself down. “Please. Cas, just move.”  

Cas huffed and bit the rim of his ear again, dug his fingers into Dean’s skin, and thrust his hips up just enough to bottom out.   

Dean bit his lip hard to keep from screaming out loud. He didn’t care that Cas had to be in total darkness to be touched, that they hardly ever had their chance, even when they were both finally able to speak their feelings out loud. He was just happy to take what he could get, even if it made him greedy and ignoble. 

Cas was hard as steel sheathed inside him and that was all that really mattered. Dean moved on him, opening up enough to feel him brushing over the spot that made him leak. 

Castiel was gasping and murmuring unintelligibly in Enochian, clinging to Dean like he was fighting to hold onto him in a fever dream.  

Dean reached down to grip himself and slowed. He didn’t like finishing so quickly, wanted to savor the moment, that ragged edge before he spilled over his knuckles. 

But when Cas whined and shivered beneath him, and grabbed a fistful of Dean’s hair, he knew his lover was done.

He kissed him on the lips, felt his harsh intake of air slipping past his, and Cas came buried fully inside him, thighs trembling. 

Dean shuddered and kissed him sloppily as he clenched around him. It wasn’t the worst they’d ever had, but as he came across Castiel’s chest, he noticed vaguely how slack his lips were against his. 

He nuzzled his chin and sighed, moving slowly and tenderly on top of him.

Castiel startled underneath him as soon as he touched the side of his face, near where the blindfold folded over his ear. 

“D-Dean?” Cas asked, his voice thin. “Dean, wh… I thought I was dreaming.” 

It was then that Dean realized that Castiel’s blindness wasn’t just as simple as his eyes failing him. He clenched his jaw and pet Castiel’s neck softly. “No, Cas. It’s just me.” 

“Dean.” he sounded relieved, and squirmed underneath him. “I missed you so much. I’m tired of my bed being so cold.” His fingers found his thighs where he still straddled him and caressed him tenderly. 

The prince could feel his stomach turning. He couldn’t let it show, even though he wasn’t sure if Castiel was even really conscious, and if that made him a monster.  Well, if that didn’t work, surely the things he’d done outside of their bedchamber would turn him into one.  He kissed Castiel softly. “I love you.” 

Castiel adjusted his blindfold. “And I you. We are sticky... did we? We did, didn’t we?” 

“Yes, you were… you were great.” He only had to force his smile a little. He knew his eyes were sad, but with the lights out it would never be known. 

Cas’ bitter laughter surprised him, but his lover didn’t make a move to push him off just yet. “I suppose that you wonder… just how much of me is still in here.” 

Well, Dean hadn’t wondered that until  _ now _ , he supposed. “I didn’t know, Cas.”

“I’m still here.” He shifted his hips beneath him, sliding himself out of Dean and replacing his semi-hard cock with his fingers. “Perhaps this illness will have my cunning, and my sight, and… and maybe it will steal whatever peace I’ve managed to find. But it’s not taking  _ this _ from me. Not while you still give me the right.” He scissored his fingers inside of Dean, sliding easily and hooking forward to prod at the clenching nerves that protested and utterly  _ craved _ the attention. 

Dean wasn’t sure that he would harden again so soon—and he wasn’t sure that was what Castiel wanted. He made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat and pushed his hips back. “I… gods above and below, Cas. I give you the right.”

Castiel made a soft noise in his throat and withdrew his fingers to rub along the rim of his entrance, teasing and stretching the skin there. Dean was flushed and his mouth hung open, nearly helpless to do anything besides gasp against his lover’s neck. 

He growled and hooked his fingers again. “Are you getting hard again, Dean? I’m going to make such a mess of you.” 

Dean could feel him swelling against the crook of his thigh, and feel his own cock twitch on Castiel’s belly. There were so many things he wanted to moan, but he dismissed them as too desperate or needy—he settled for a grunt and a roll of his hips. “Getting there.” 

Cas chuckled and pumped his fingers deep before pulling them out agonizingly slow. “Get off me and plant your face in the pillows.” 

Dean’s arms trembled as he got up and did as he commanded, laying his upper half across the pillows while raising his ass with knees spread. Cas’s hands slid up his thighs and gripped his hips to line up, and even then he drew it out, flirting with penetrating Dean, just rubbing his cock along the cleft of his ass. The prince moaned when he realized just how hard Cas was breathing. 

When he breached Dean he pulled back roughly on his hips to bury himself, pulling the prince down the bed, digging his fingers in to leave spotted bruises. He murmured something unintelligible and began a hard, fast rhythm, carelessly thrusting as deep as he could go. 

Dean’s fingers clenched in the sheets as the air punched out of him. It burned, sure, but it was the good kind and his cock suddenly bouncing to hit his belly was a whole other kind of needy stimulation. He moaned into the pillow. 

Cas grabbed the back of his neck as he shifted his angle to hit him in the right spot and Dean’s vision was filled with throbbing stars of purple and white.

Obscenities spilled from his mouth, wasted on the pillow that kept them from Cas’ ears. He was certain that he was already leaking. He shifted a little to get a hand down around himself, gave a few strokes that made him whimper, and then clamped down at the base hard, denying his orgasm and making him buck back against Castiel. 

Cas grunted harshly and snapped his hips forward. “Good boy. Stay like that.” He pulled his hand off of Dean’s hip and ran his fingers around the edge of his hole as he slid in and out of him, then slipped two inside next to his cock. 

Dean had a vague notion that he was being loud, but hell, the people near his chambers should know his preferences by now. 

“Good. God, you’re such a mess.” Cas huffed and kept his fingers still as he thrust quickly. “Don’t spill a drop on my covers or I’ll make you sleep in it.” Despite his stern voice, his tone was clipped—he was close to coming himself. Dean dropped his other hand to cup the head of his cock as he frantically worked his throbbing member. 

The second time coming almost hurt. His toes curled and his jaw locked around a mouthful of cotton and wool batting. 

Above him, Cas whined, slapped his ass hard and came buried deep. “Gods, you around me like this… it’s just so decadent.” He took a few shuddering breaths and teased his fluttering hole with his fingertips. “You’re exhausting, Dean.” He pulled back and slumped to the side, sighing. 

Dean finally raised his head and took a deep breath of the stuffy air in their chamber. He moved his legs a little, groaning. “I could say the same. I’ll feel that for days.” 

“Good.” Castiel stretched and pulled a blanket over himself, yawning and shifting on the bed. 

Dean smirked and reached over to wipe his hands on his cloak. “I could use a bath. What about you?” 

Castiel didn’t answer, really. He was already softly snoring.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam took a bath. Gadreel insisted that Sam bathe before him. He had expected some measure of awkwardness, but Sam asked him to help him shave and he actually found himself enjoying the simple, tender task. 

When their positions were reversed, Gadreel was happy to let him do the same, even though the prince apologized again for the manner in which he’d interrogated him earlier. He reassured him again and again that no apology was needed, and eventually the task was done before the water was cold. 

They ate and rested more, and if it weren’t for the books, Gadreel might have fallen asleep.    

He was drinking tea when he heard it—that eerie laughter. Gadreel had to put down his teacup and just let his hands shake on his lap. The bath had gone so well, why was he hearing that mocking giggle?

Sam was busy with some bread and stew while he read a book. 

Gadreel stood up and walked slowly to the window. He didn’t think that the sound was real, perhaps it was just a waking nightmare. It seemed more persistent, different at times rather than a repeating hallucination. Down in the courtyard, nothing looked amiss. A few soldiers were practicing with rattan weapons, some of them in the house tabard, some in normal clothing. 

He heard it again. Thaddeus’s laugh was unmistakable, high, and mirthful. It echoed up to the window and wrapped a fist around his heart. It couldn’t be real, there had to be someone in the small castle that just sounded exactly like him. Thaddeus coming to this land would be a laughable proposition. 

“Gadreel?” Sam’s spoon clinked against the simple earthenware bowl. The prince sounded concerned. 

He realized his jaw was clenched only when he had to open it to speak.  “Sire, I would like to … maybe try to practice with the garrison today.”

Sam made a little face when Gadreel used the honorific, but shrugged. “All right. I’ll get my boots.” 

\---

The spear felt good in his hand. Gadreel loosed his arm from the sling and stretched it out to his side, using it as little as he could for practice. He knew it would move how he wanted it to, but high motions made the pain spike and his hand spasm. He kept his form slow and nearly meditative. He didn’t think about the space of years that had separated him from the study of arms. In truth, he couldn’t. 

There were years, he was now sure, where the fog shrouding his memory would never lift. He was trying not to think about it. Now, Sam watched him from the end of the courtyard, sitting on a hay bale. 

He wanted to be better, and to not think about the lost age he’d spent doing penance. The left wrist was still nimble, and his shoulder ached to move, despite the rest of his arm being perfectly competent. Even if Gadreel’s movements weren’t as nuanced as he’d wished, it felt good to have the freedom to practice. 

He knew more than a few of the castle guards were watching him, perhaps even sizing him up. Gadreel sincerely doubted that they would be impressed. 

Thaddeus’s laughter made him slip, and he spun to look for him, butt of the spear striking on the ground just an inch from his soft boot.  His eyes searched over the people, looking for the flash of gold cording on the uniform he wore. 

“Gad?” Sam had seen something on his face, that much was clear from his concerned tone. 

“It’s nothing.” Gadreel wasn’t sure why he lied. Perhaps because he didn’t want to appear insane. 

A clear view, then, of the shock of blond hair on Thaddeus’s head, his serene face smiling softly. He looked straight at Gadreel, and his expression twisted with incredible malice—just for a moment before he got himself under control and his expression mellowed to a pleasant smile. 

By then Gadreel was already walking across the courtyard, spear in hand. 

The scuffling behind him didn't register in his ears, and Sam’s hand on his good shoulder was a surprise. Gadreel nearly spun off his feet, wrenching the spear between the two of them. 

“What are you doing?” The prince was unarmed and held his hands up. 

Gadreel wasn't sure.  “I saw someone.” He fumbled for words like a child. Perhaps Thaddeus hadn't tarnished his honor, for he had none. “He… hurt Abner.”

Sam looked at the crowd of staring faces and took the spear from Gadreel's unresisting hands.  “It's not the time. Come inside.”

The knight glanced up at the people and bowed his head, following Sam as he walked inside. “What is their name?”

“Thaddeus.” His knees trembled. “He… he's here. In the castle.”

He saw the prince glance behind them both and frown. 

Gadreel wanted very badly to touch his hand, but settled for just watching the fall of his hair on the nape of his neck. 

When the room’s door was closed behind the both of them, the knight found himself questioning everything he’d seen. “It couldn’t be. It wasn’t. He’d never come here.” 

Sam touched his hurt shoulder and gently squeezed until Gadreel looked him in the eye. He dropped his hand, apparently realizing that it hurt the older man. “I’m sorry. I believe you.” 

“He—isten, Sam. It can’t be him. He wouldn’t come here.”

“You seemed very sure in the courtyard. Was it this… Thaddeus, or not?” 

“I thought I saw him.”

“But did you?” 

Gadreel nodded and closed his eyes as Sam cupped his cheeks, abruptly very close. 

“Sam, he can’t… I can’t go back. If he’s here diplomatically to… try to make some kind of deal, please don’t let him make me a part of it.” 

“I won’t.” The prince breathed on his forehead. “I’m not sure why he’s here. There were a lot of people downstairs that I haven’t seen before.”  

“I thought that if I went down to the yard and saw that he wasn’t there, I wouldn’t hear him anymore.” 

“You thought you heard him… and said nothing?” 

He clenched his jaw under Sam’s soft grip and nodded. “If you thought you were hearing things, would you say anything?” 

Sam sighed and dropped his hands. “No, not until I was sure.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Can I kiss you now?” Sam touched his shirt gently, picking at the seams.  

Gadreel kissed him first—at Sam’s soft gasp he made the kiss gentle. The prince smiled slightly against his lips. 

Soon enough, Sam pulled back and licked his lips, pressed their foreheads together, and sighed. “I’ll go and see what it is that they want. Stay here. Jo won’t let anyone come in if I tell her not to.” 

Gadreel gulped and nodded in agreement. “Please, don’t let him get away.”

Sam looked tense, but smiled anyhow. “It’ll be fine. But be patient.” 

The knight backed away and went to sit on the bed. “I understand, Sam.” 

Sam left him in his room and had a brief conversation with Jo that was mostly muffled by the door.

Gadreel was left to his own devices. He looked at his hands in his lap and picked at his tunic. He now knew that he loathed the silence of lonely spaces, that the emptiness of the room would leave him easily startled and frightened at shadows. The knight did not look for the creeping doubt that shrank the room and changed the color of the light to something pale and sinister. 

If Thaddeus spoke to Sam; if Thaddeus managed to gain an audience with either of the princes, he could bend them to his will. The thought sank into his bones and rooted in his clenched fists. 

He stood up in a lurch and went to the door, and if his hand hovered for a moment above the latch, it was only because he hated to disappoint Sam. He hoped that the prince would understand, and took a deep breath before opening the door. 

Jo stood a few feet away. “Hello, sir. Do you need any—”

He interrupted her. “Your orders were to not let anyone in?” 

She looked a little taken aback, but nodded. “Yes.” 

“Anything else?” He tried not to look like he was clenching his jaw. 

“Sam said he would be back soon.” Jo frowned at him. 

Gadreel backed down the hall. “All’s well. Don’t let anyone into the room.” He waited until he was nearly at the stairs to look away from the young woman, silently pleading that she wouldn’t try to follow him. He didn’t know what it was entirely that he would do, once he found Thaddeus. Force him to leave the castle, perhaps? No, that would never be possible. 

He was going to have to prove his torturer’s sinister nature and force him to show his deceit. Gadreel would challenge him to a duel, and leave himself entirely exposed to the invisible, hot, barbed hooks that Thaddeus could make him feel pulling at his skin. But maybe someone would see what the sadistic man could do, and help him bear witness.

Sometime before Gadreel’s feet reached the bottom of the stairs, he began to shake with dread. 


	8. A Coward's Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regrettable decisions and rash actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has been roughly eight months since my last update to this story, and I'm sorry, but I'm always moving forward, even if it's at a crawl. 
> 
> Chapter 9 is going up immediately because I will absolutely not leave you guys hanging on this note.

Sam knocked on Dean’s chamber door and listened. He was leery about walking into his rooms uninvited when his brother was alone with Cas, for obvious reasons that were burned onto the backs of his eyeballs. He heard Dean clear his throat and whisper loudly. “Come in.”

Sam opened the door to total darkness. He wasn’t sure how many drapes were over the windows. There was a sloshing noise from the tub near Dean’s desk. He left the door a little open, hoping that a shaft of light from the hallway would give him a clue as to what was going on. “Why are all the lamps out?”

“Keep your voice down. Cas is sleeping.” The light from the door just barely illuminated a burrowed figure amid the blankets and sheets on the bed.

“Right. I need to talk to you about the refugees.”

Dean sighed and the metal tub squeaked. “Sorry, I just… Sam, I need to relax.”

“Dean, some of the Atheans might not be trustworthy.”

“ I’m going to turn them out in a day or so.”

“Turn them out? Look, Gadreel said—”

Dean interrupted with an angry whisper. “Don’t talk about him in here. As soon as we can unbind you safely, we’ll send him with his people.”  

Sam continued, exasperation clear in his voice. “No, that’s the problem. He said one of his torturers was among the refugees.”

Dean’s teeth creaked as he clenched his jaw. “We’re not keeping the Atheans here. Any of them.”

“I know. But we’re in need of workers, we just need to be picky about whom we choose.”

“I’m not raising an army out of broken toys,” Dean hissed.

Sam sighed in exasperation as he found the wall of the chamber to lean against.  Dean made a few sloshing noises in the tub.

Eventually, Dean spoke. “I notice you’re not leaving.”

“Dean, I like him. And he was locked up for more than a decade, don’t you think he’s paid for his crimes?”

“Is this because I wouldn’t let you have a dog?” Dean huffed.

Sam opened his mouth, indignant reply ready to spring forth, but was interrupted by a scream echoing through the castle.

“Fuck,” Dean whispered. There were several screams now, coming from outside in the courtyard that lay before the keep.

Sam went to the door. “Bring your sword.” He rushed down the hall, barging past Jo, who followed him uncertainly.

Sam looked back at her. “Stay and watch over Gadreel.”

She looked guilty. “He left the room.”

Sam froze for a moment, gripping the pommel of a dagger with growing dread. “Fine. Come on.” He nearly flew down the narrow stairs.

 

* * *

 

 

The yard opened before him, absurd in how large and vulnerable the space was. Gadreel swallowed a trembling breath and walked out towards the forge, picking up a sword that had no scabbard from a bench outside Bobby’s workshop. The edge was notched and dull, but the grip was in good shape. He swung it lightly in his hand, then looked around the yard, wishing that the steel imparted the confidence he needed.

He clenched his jaw as he surveyed the people in the courtyard. Thaddeus was easy to find. He was making his way from the barn to the well, bucket in hand. It was strange to see the faint trace of a smile on his puckish face without any malice directed at him.

He was almost startled when his own voice boomed in the yard. “Thaddeus,” Gadreel accused, hand white-knuckled on the grip of the sword. “I demand that you admit to your crimes, and fight me.”

Thaddeus blinked at Gadreel then looked around at the other people who were watching—about twenty people were scattered around the yard and this challenge was the most interesting thing happening.

Thaddeus set his bucket down. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were again?”

A pit grew in Gadreel’s stomach. “You know who I am.”

Thaddeus shrugged and tilted his head. “I’m afraid I don’t recall. What is your name, sir?”

The knight inwardly cringed. “I am Gadreel.”

A murmur of recognition rippled through the courtyard. He looked to the people, and saw faces that looked back at him, twisted with malice and revulsion.

Thaddeus laughed.

Gadreel charged at him amid screams, swinging his sword in a high arc as Thaddeus kicked the pail at his feet and ducked behind the well.

Without thinking, Gadreel shoved a guard carelessly aside when he tried to intervene, and continued to give chase as the short, blond-haired man wove between bystanders and wagons.

Gadreel’s heart was pounding, fearful of the screaming crowd, and enraged beyond reason. He gave a victorious cry when he managed to slice his quarry across his shoulder and back, and sent him sprawling.

Thaddeus wailed, cowering on the ground. Chest heaving, Gadreel looked down, sword raised.

“ **Stop**!” The voice cut through him like a thunderclap.

Sam was standing at the door, looking out at the scene, face carved into a deep frown. Jo was beside him, looking uncertain, hand on the handle of her blade.

Gadreel froze on his feet, but then had the presence of mind to step back and kneel on the paving stones. He set the sword down in front of him with an inelegant clatter. Thaddeus continued to sob incoherently, and the sound twisted in his guts like a hook.

Gadreel found his voice. “Sire, I’m sorry, but I—”

“You will say nothing more, Gadreel.” Sam walked over slowly. He seemed nervous but his spine was straight, as though he knew he had to project his authority no matter the situation.  

Gadreel was aware that there were guards encroaching, their noisy armor audible even over the murmurs of the circling crowd. He looked up at Sam’s conflicted eyes and spoke, even though he knew he’d just been ordered not to.

“This man tortured me, Sam. I… cannot allow him to walk free.”

Sam very nearly shouted at him. “Be silent!”

Gadreel pleaded with his Prince. “Sire, you cannot allow him to leave this place, I beg you.”  

Sam’s reply was dangerously low and quiet. “I release you from my service and from your vows, Gadreel.”

The knight felt his face pale. He was free of his vow of obedience and loyalty. Gadreel was also cast out. Just out of his reach, on the ground to his left, Thaddeus’ sobs began to hiccough with laughter.

A guard put his hand on Gadreel’s shoulder. He took one last, long look up at Sam and lunged for his sword, spun, and thrust his blade deep into Thaddeus’s throat, ripping it to the side and sundering his neck with a great gout of blood. It sprang like a banner from under the man’s jaw and splattered in a wide arc.

He watched numbly as Thaddeus stumbled and fell, breath hissing out of the ghastly, irreparable wound.

The guards grabbed him by the arms and he let his sword drop. It banged on the stones between his feet, and Gadreel continued to stare at the dying man, hoping that this moment would bring him peace. At least he had done something worthy, even if it wasn’t noble. Sam hissed angrily through clenched teeth, and Gadreel didn’t turn to look, transfixed by Thaddeus’ dimming expression.

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure he was audible, but the words were meant for Sam. He was jostled into kneeling, hands pulled behind his back.

Gadreel looked over at the eerily still body, feeling his stomach flutter in a half-hearted rebellion. Maybe now he could put the past to rest.

When he looked at Sam, who was still silent, the prince’s lips were pressed into a thin line. He frowned, looked at someone behind Gadreel, and gave a decisive nod.

He was plunged into darkness—Gadreel yelped and jerked, but was held fast. They bound the bag around his head and dragged him away, heels scraping awkwardly on the cobblestones.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean dragged him. He waved off the other guards and kept his arm wrapped securely around Gadreel’s throat. The bag was mostly for effect, but the more he thought about it, the less and less he wanted to let the knight see the light of day ever again.

He threw him down the steps into the dungeon and watched him roll into a wall. “You bloody asshole.”

Gadreel groaned in pain and reached up to pull at the bag on his head. Dean walked over and put his knee squarely between his shoulderblades as he struggled, and let his weight hold him pinned on the floor. “I hope he was worth it, because you aren’t leaving here alive.”

The dungeon was mostly empty and guards were only posted outside. What went on in the depths under their food storage was entirely secret.

Dean longed for the days when the place had no occupants at all, nothing to keep him on edge. Crowley was watching them from his cell, his eyes dark and beady as he smirked.

Dean grabbed Gadreel by the neck, wrapping the bag tight as he dragged him to the far end of the dungeon, past all the other cells, where he could throw the Athean in and lock him away for as long as possible.

He supposed he would have to send someone down with food now. He had no idea what was sustaining Crowley, but he had never touched the food Dean offered.  The westerner terrified him.

Dean cracked his knuckles and cinched the fabric tight around Gadreel’s neck, cutting off most of his air. The Athean held onto Dean’s forearm, gasping unevenly.

“You’re a bloody assassin.”

“No, no.” His voice was thready and his whole body shook.

Dean hurled him backward into the cell that awaited him and slammed the wooden door shut, looking at him through the small barred window. “You’ve murdered a man in broad daylight—do you think you’re going to get out of this?”

Gadreel tripped and slid into the far wall. He fell to his knees with a sob, raising his arms to cover his head blindly.

Dean resented him for this childish crying—this desperate bid for pity. “You tried to seduce my brother, you filth.”

The knight fell silent, for a few moments, perhaps trying to form an argument. “Tell Sam I’m sorry,” he croaked, and took the bag off his head. “I owed you a debt and I… did not redeem myself.”

“We took in refugees. They weren’t armed. And you, while wearing our house colors, slaughtered one of them.” He paced the length of the hall outside his cell.

“I had to.”

“In broad daylight, as though it was sporting?”

Gadreel fell silent and didn’t look at him further.

“And I will execute you in the courtyard, as soon as they ask,” Dean spat and turned his back on the cells.  He stomped up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

 

Charlie had just finished eating and had laid down in the largest tunic she could find, which hung on her shoulders and draped down to her calves. She desperately wanted the bath, but apparently one of the princes was using it.

Instead of opening a book, or drinking a nice cup of tea, she closed her eyes and put her pillow over her head, just feeling her thighs throb gently from the days on the saddle. She supposed the horse probably felt the same.

If there was screaming from somewhere outside her window, she missed it entirely, dreaming about utterly nothing and dead asleep.

She was shaken awake by a hand on her leg and replied groggily and with great aplomb; “get out.”

“Charlie, wake up, please, come on.” Adam was in her room, and that was unusual enough to get her full attention.

She turned over and saw him standing with Anna, both looking pale and haggard. Charlie got an elbow under herself. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Ezekiel… the Athean we found on the road.” Adam took a deep breath. “He just killed one of the people we brought in with us.”

“What?”

“His name is Gadreel, actually.” Anna interjected urgently. “And he helped murder the king of Athos when the kingdom fell.”

“…what in the seven hells, guys. I haven’t even had a bath.” Charlie rubbed her forehead.

Adam sighed. “I’m going to go down and try to help with the… crowds. Anna, are you coming?”

“No, I must speak with Lady Bradbury.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to protest, but shook his head after glancing at Charlie. She felt a blush rising in her neck to her cheeks as he left the room.

“Um.” Charlie gulped and sat up more fully.

“There are some that are talking of leaving. They want to run as far as they can from this place.”

Charlie started to pace. “I… when I offered your people protection this isn’t what I had in mind.”

“I don’t doubt you. But at the same time I don’t think I can ask everyone to stay.”

“We all will fight to keep them safe, I promise you.”

“I know the Winchesters. They always have the best of intentions.” Anna looked away from Charlie, distrustful and seeming more than a little sad. “In the end it’s always down to them. Just them. Not anyone else.”

Charlie impulsively grabbed the hem of of her sleeve. “I’ll protect you.”

“They’ll be the death of you.” Anna shook her head. “They won’t mean it, but misfortune follows them.”

“Don’t say that; it’s superstitious nonsense.” She let Anna go.

“Thank you for taking us this far. For making sure we survived traveling from the border.”

“Come with me. We need to do something about it.” The wheels in Charlie’s head were turning again—not that they ever stopped, but now they had a purpose. She walked to the door and opened it.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam had sat down on the bed, his sheets shoved into the corner, staring at the pair of ragged pants that Gadreel had worn only a couple of hours before. Sam could already feel the sudden aches and pains of his illness returning, and hated the panic that was rising in his throat at the thought of returning to a near-invalid state.

Charlie knocked on his door and walked in immediately.

Sam jumped and looked at her guiltily. “Charlie. What is it?”

“Is it true that Gadreel killed someone?”

He nodded. “His torturer was among the refugees, in hiding.” Sam had wanted at least a few minutes respite to think about it.  Or rather, to avoid thinking about it.

Charlie froze, and Anna cleared her throat behind her, stepping out from being nearly in lady Bradbury’s shadow.

Sam felt that pit of dread again. “Oh. Anna.”

“Yes. Hello, Sam.” She gathered her robe tightly around her.

He was somehow more acutely embarrassed now that she was there. He wondered if they would know, from the state of his room, that he had been bedfellows with the traitor. “I had no way of knowing that Gadreel would do such a thing. I ordered him to stop.”

“He overthrew the kingdom and pushed us all into chaos. Of course he didn’t listen.”

Charlie looked back at her, mortified.

Anna sighed at the awkward silence she’d created. “Those of us fleeing Athos are leaving Thelema immediately and thank you for your hospitality, Prince Winchester. We won’t be staying the night.”

Dean slammed the door open and walked in. Anna jumped so violently that she jarred Charlie, whose hand had dropped to the pommel of her dagger.

Dean looked at them both, did a double-take at seeing Anna, and then looked over at Sam. “Am I interrupting?”

Charlie gulped and shook her head.

Anna took a deep breath and wiped her face. It was plain to Sam that she was trembling, and he was nearly across the room from her. “Dean, I have to leave this place. I’m taking as many Atheans with me as I can.”

Dean looked a tad guilty. “I didn’t know you were with them, Anna. Sorry it… sorry it all worked out like this.”

“I know, Dean. This is just what happens in your wake.” Anna gulped.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Sam interjected.

“And what if I execute him?” Dean glowered. “Would that put you at ease?”

Charlie spoke up before Sam had a chance to unclench his jaw. “You can’t think that would help, or make anyone feel safer here.”

Dean threw up his hands. “What am I to do, then?”

Charlie sighed raggedly. “I’ll go with them. We’ll go to the village that’s empty and try to salvage what we can there. We’ll take a few horses and some of the stores to make sure we survive the winter.”

Sam shook his head. “No, Charlie—we need you here now that Cas can’t see to his duties.”

Dean shot Sam a dirty look.

Anna looked at both of them in turn. “What happened to Castiel?”

After a moment of awkward silence, Dean had to say something. “He’s fine. He’s just sick.”

She glanced at Sam’s guilty face. “What did you do to him, Dean.”

“I swear, nothing. He’s safe here.”

“Then tell me what’s happened to him.”

Dean gulped. “He has to stay in our chambers, with the curtains drawn and the lamps out. The light gives him headaches.”

Anna paled. “Dean, how long has this been going on?”

“More than six months, less than a year, why?”

“…I’m leaving immediately.”

Charlie tried to intervene, even though she was obviously puzzled. “Anna, wait, the village is a good option.”

Dean’s posture had changed, and he uncoiled, reached out and grabbed Anna by the shoulders. “What do you know, Anna?”

She looked terrified and shook her head. “You call it a sickness, but he’s being poisoned. By someone in _your house,_ Dean.”

Dean shook his head and frowned, looking away. He seemed haunted by the accusation. Anna pushed his unresisting hands off.

“There’s no poison that works that way,” Dean said, looking over at Sam, “is there?”

“Not that I’ve ever read of.” Sam thought he felt something, a small pain running up his right wrist. It flared again a moment later. He looked down at his arm and found nothing amiss. That this discussion was happening in his bedchamber was a little irritating and he spoke up. “Just let her go. She doesn’t have to go anywhere she doesn’t want to.”

Anna nodded. “Lady Charlie, would you come with me?”

Sam rankled and then his other wrist began to ache. “Anna, no. If you leave with your people you can’t take any of ours. We can’t allow it.”

Charlie looked outraged and Anna looked embarrassed. Charlie gulped. “I really should stay here. But listen, there’s a village—”

Sam couldn’t hide the pain this time when he felt a deep gouge along his forearm. Or the fading sensation that came with it. He gasped. “Dean. There’s something wrong.”

Dean blinked at him, looking overwhelmed. “What.”

“Get your old lover out of here.” Sam felt his fingers trembling, felt them slick with blood, even though they looked dry.

Anna went to the door and left hurriedly, looking more worried than offended. Charlie frowned at the brothers and followed behind her. In truth, Sam somewhat regretted mentioning Anna and Dean’s previous tryst, but he was in pain and they didn’t seem to be leaving his room of their own accord.

Dean had said something, Sam slowly realized. He took a breath. “What did you say?”

“What’s wrong?” Dean squeezed his shoulder, and he realized it hurt deep in the joint, like he’d… recently torn it out of the socket.

Realization hit him suddenly. “Dean, get Meg. Have her undo the bond.”

“What? You’re better, come on.” He pulled at his tunic and made him turn his head to look at him, checking his eyes.

Sam wanted to close them, but fought to keep his wits. “She said I was still bound to h… him.”

“Gadreel.”

Sam nodded and groaned. “This isn’t… fair.”

His brother stood, worry plastered over his face. “I know. Stay awake. I’ll be right back.”

Sam thought he nodded from the way the room wobbled. Dean left and Sam just held onto the edge of his bed and tried to stay awake.

 

* * *

 

 

The dungeon was damp, and cold, and Gadreel had already assessed that the cell was shorter than his height and just long enough to stretch out along the stone shelf to sleep. Perhaps it had once been a root cellar, but the stout door was firmly barred in place for just this purpose.

The hysteria at being confined was gradual. In the first few minutes, he merely touched the walls. Then he thought about how cold it would really be, once winter set in.

Maybe Dean would have him executed before then. He seemed like the sort to do away with him soon. Gadreel bit his lip and sat down on the ledge, mind narrowing to a sharp focus, trying to recall what it felt like when, twice, in the year before the king died, he had acted as headsman. He knew he had trembled and worked too fast—Lucifer had given him quite a lot of pointers after. Would Dean ask someone else to lift the heavy axe? He didn’t seem the type. The prince would deny him a hood, to make him see the crowd, their faces both rapt and filled with revulsion.  

He didn’t want to see Sam again. Not with how he’d disappointed him. And he didn’t want to explore the possibility that he might be left to die here.

Gadreel began to pick at the walls of the surrounding cell, finding the powdery mortar chipping in a few places. He was able to find a tiny chip of one of the stones that came away in his hand, and in the near-eclipsing darkness, he examined it.

It was as small as the pad of his thumb, but an edge was sharp, enough to make him flinch when he dragged it over the skin of his wrist.

He swallowed and closed his eyes, digging in blindly and shuddering when it cut deeper, spilling blood down his fingertips. Gadreel, determined to not drop his makeshift blade, sat down on the bench and turned his back to the door before switching to the other arm. If there were any justice to the workings of the spirit world, he would perhaps soon see Abner.


	9. The Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things continue to come apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to update this quarterly, but this chapter had to be released with the last one. Hope you haven't all forgotten the hundred plot threads I've got going on.

Dean noticed the chill this time when he opened the door to the dungeon, and the strange silence inside the stone halls under the kitchen. When Sam and he had moved in, this was all caved in, and seemed to be a tomb more than a root cellar. The place had always felt haunted. 

“Gadreel,” Dean whispered. There was no answer. Crowley, sitting on the floor in his cell, simply smiled at Dean—it was unsettling.

Gadreel was sitting with his back to the door, leaning heavily against the wall. “Hey,” Dean barked at him. “Get up.” 

The Athean didn’t so much as flinch. Dean clenched his jaw and unlocked the door, ready for an attack, taking a hesitant step and finding the floor of the cell slick with puddles of the man’s blood.  

He swore quietly, grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him, finding his front doused with red and his body limp. Gadreel’s thready pulse was barely beating against Dean’s fingers under his jaw. Dean cursed under his breath, then carefully tried to lift him, eventually settling for dragging the lanky man by the armpits. He had to get him to Meg, rather than bring her down here and risk her seeing that they had Crowley.

The look that Ellen gave him as he dragged Gadreel through the kitchen was something he was sure would haunt his nightmares later. She pursed her lips and threw a tablecloth at the knight to cover the bloody smears, then tutted at the floor. 

Dean made his way up to Sam’s bedchamber, taking the stairs very slowly, trying not to bump the man’s head on the stones. If they were still linked, that meant that Sam would feel any petty abuse that Dean might inflict. And it meant that until they were unbound, he’d have to keep Gadreel from harming himself.

Jo clamored to help him, but pulled back when she saw the wounds. “Oh gods,” she whispered. 

“If you’re just going to gawk, you can leave,” Dean snapped.

Jo nodded and helped him up the last few stairs to the corridor. “What do you need?” 

“Go get Meg. Some clean rags, and hot water.” Sometimes Dean felt like a dictator, especially when he had to bark orders. Sometimes he missed being on his own with his brother, when nobody felt they had to pay him any fealty. On the other hand, Thelema was the first place he’d felt truly safe in _ years. _

He arranged Gadreel on the floor beside his brother’s bed. Sam, for his part, was clinging to consciousness and couldn’t hide the guilty look when Gadreel was laid out on the flagstones. 

“You doing okay?” Dean asked his brother, as he stood between the two of them.

“Yeah, I just… Gods below, Dean. He tried to kill himself.”

“Yeah. He probably did it to hurt  _ you. _ ”

Sam closed his eyes and turned his head in denial. 

“I’m going to have Meg take the bond away so if he does it again…” Dean didn’t need to finish the sentence.  

His little brother looked queasy, but nodded in agreement. 

Dean pet his hair briefly, muttering, “Sorry it came to this.”

“Not your fault, Dean,” Sam mumbled back.

He nodded and sighed. “What _ he  _ does isn’t your fault, either.” 

Sam sighed and lapsed into silence, still looking deathly pale. Dean inwardly cursed Gadreel again—his brother’s vitality was being drained from him by this sycophant. If Gadreel wanted to die, he’d help him—as soon as he could make sure Sammy would be safe. 

Meg did not knock. She didn’t gracefully enter the room. Instead, she banged the door off the wall and came in sideways, hauling an absurdly tiny cauldron and a few small bundles of cloth. “Hello, boys. Sam, you look like hell.” 

Sam grunted and blinked at her, squinting as though he couldn’t keep her in focus. Jo followed her into the room and handed Dean the rags, setting a kettle down on the broad desk.

Dean nodded appreciatively to Jo and stood up as Meg slapped her things onto the desk as well. “Meg, the bond’s hurting Sam.” 

“Yes, Dean, I can see that. More importantly, you’re letting Sam’s reservoir bleed out on your rug.” She ambled over to Gadreel and turned his wrist so she could get a good look at the gash.

Sam slowly laid down on his side and closed his eyes. Dean grimaced and decided not to wake him. Rest might do him some good, and he doubted that Meg would be shy about needing him awake if she required it. 

Meg bowed over Gadreel, looking like she was kissing him with extraordinary care. In the quiet room, he could hear that she said something, but hadn’t a prayer of figuring out what. Gadreel just groaned shallowly. 

“So, you can unbind them, right?” Dean clenched his fists at his sides. 

“Is there a reason you haven’t bandaged this?” She snapped in reply.

Dean sighed and went over with the kettle and the bandages. “Fine.” He knelt and plucked Gadreel’s sleeve away from his wrist, and started to clean the torn skin, cringing at the wound trying to sew itself shut under his fingers with Meg’s magic. It was strange, the skin jittery and tangling tighter towards the middle of the scratchy, hesitant cut. 

Gadreel shifted a little, body twisting and head lolling aside. He opened his eyes as Meg stood up, and took in the room, confused, and for a moment, terribly hopeful.

Dean just glared at him until he looked away. The man was covered in blood and the bandages were really only a superficial covering for the pink scar tissue after Meg’s magic worked its way through the fresh cuts. 

“What’s the matter with Sam?” Gadreel had the nerve to ask.

Dean nearly answered with a slap, but restrained himself, knowing it could hurt his brother. 

He was never thankful for Meg speaking, except perhaps now. “You’re still linked. He feels everything.” 

Gadreel gulped and shook his head. “I… he disavowed me, I thought that I was no longer…” he turned his eyes to Dean. “I thought you would execute me.”

“Plans change.” Dean turned away and spoke to the witch. “Meg, do you need  _ him _ here?”

“No.” She didn’t look up from her ingredient bundles as she carefully untied them.

“Then just forget him.” Dean stood and picked Gadreel off the floor. “He’s going back to the dungeon soon enough.”

For a moment, it looked as though Gadreel might beg. He wobbled on his legs and looked down, dodging Dean’s gaze, and stayed silent. 

“I can’t believe how much of a coward you turned out to be.” Dean couldn’t resist twisting that metaphorical knife in his side. “I’ve seen you fight, and you just… not even an hour after I lock you up, you try to shuffle off the mortal coil. Never would have guessed you would fold so easy.” 

Gadreel didn’t reply immediately. He licked his lips and tugged at his bloody tunic for a few moments. “I… understand that we were both desperate when you sought allies. I’m sorry for my failure. When Lady Meg unbinds Sam and I… will you please execute me privately?” The man’s voice was quietly casual, as though he’d practiced the question. 

Dean frowned at his temerity. It was a simple enough request. He doubted that Sam would allow it though. In the end, he callously answered with a shrug. 

Adam knocked before entering, eyes wide as saucers.

“Yes, there’s blood in the hallway, we know.” Meg spoke casually, barely looking around to see who it was. 

“Ah… Dean, the Atheans are leaving. They’re not taking horses.”

Dean nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I know. We can’t force them to stay.”

“But where will they go?” Adam seemed pained. He always wanted to be good, but he had no idea how to go about it. His head was filled with dreams about the way things  _ should _ be. 

“Perhaps Lumley. They won’t go back to the border, that’s for certain.” 

Adam stood there, mulling it over. “What if we negotiated with the princes of Athos?” 

Dean shook his head almost violently. “That pack of jackals have never been good on their word. They’d sooner take the kingdom as their own before they treated us with any respect.”

Meg interrupted, bent over the table and seemingly deep in thought. “Talk in the hall, princes. You’re bothering me.” 

Dean knew he looked defeated and just turned away, looking out the window at the afternoon sunlight. “Just take him to the dungeons, Adam. There’s much more going on than I can explain now.” Dean could hear their father in his own voice—he hated giving orders like John.

Adam looked for a moment like he’d give in to whining, and refuse. He gathered himself and nodded. “Right.” He clenched his jaw and took Gadreel by the arm, obviously trying to seem as though he was in control of the larger man.

Dean waited for them to leave before he sat down in Sam’s chair, and watched him sleep while Meg worked. Eventually he realized that Jo was still in the room, and turned his head to find her glaring at Meg as she worked. “Jo,” he whispered.

She blinked and nodded to him. 

“Go see if Cas needs anything. And if you see your mother, tell her I’m sorry about the mess.” Dean rubbed his brow and looked away. Jo looked up to him… far too much for her own good.

“Okay.” She left the room quietly, leaving the ghost scent of her armor polish in the room. Dean closed his eyes for about thirty seconds before he had to open them again, just to make sure Meg wasn’t about to slit his and Sam’s throats. 

Meg seemed to be working on something that was gritty, like red sawdust. She held it in a small bowl and spat in it, making Dean wrinkle his nose.

She stood up and went quickly to Sam, knelt over him, and propped his mouth open. Dean nearly protested—this was going to be nasty. He had little patience and understanding of magic, but the sooner this was over, the sooner he could again condemn the whole practice. 

Meg pushed the red grit into Sam’s mouth and he choked a little in his sleep. She waited, watching him intensely for… something. Dean had no way of knowing what. 

She stood up and put her hands on her hips, making a face at Sam as though he was stubbornly refusing to cooperate. Then she shook him. “You big, dumb asshole, wake up.” 

Sam stirred and groaned, and Dean hid a small chuckle at his stupefied expression.

“Dean, fetch my tea, I’m going to talk to your brother.” Meg snapped over her shoulder as she sat down again in a huff. 

Dean glared a little, but stood up and straightened his tunic. He’d have to smooth things out with Ellen anyway, and sooner was better than later. She’d be her usual begrudging self and he’d have to do some chores—truthfully, he was almost looking forward to it.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sam felt a little dizzy lying on the bed, and kept his eyes fixed on the structure of the ceiling, looking at the square crossbeams to ensure that he wouldn’t lose his moorings and roll off the covers and onto the floor. Meg, for her part, huffed around the room until a minute or so had passed between them. 

He realized that she was waiting to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

She glanced at him. “Sam. Did you kiss him?” 

Sam gulped, knew he looked guilty. “I felt sorry for him.” 

Meg huffed. “I didn’t ask what you felt about him. I asked if you  _ kissed. _ ”

“Why? Do you really need some blackmail material? Or something to keep you warm at night?” 

“Because it makes the spell permanent, you buffoon.”

Sam gulped and glanced at her nervously. “Oh.”

“You did that and more, didn’t you?” 

Sam knew he had a few tells, and the jumping muscle in his jaw that pulled Meg’s gaze was one of them. He nodded.

She threw up her hands. “Well.” 

It was somehow a complete sentence. Sam shivered. “What about after I’m healed?” 

“I don’t know, nobody’s ever been this much of a fool.” She began cleaning her things off of his desk, scraping out the mortar and pestle with her fingers and swiping it on a rag, which she threw at the floor angrily.  

“Meg, you and I both know that you don’t get your spells out of a book.” Sam intended it to be a gentle admonishment, but she looked at him like he’d grown a third head. “How many people have you used this magic on?” 

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “None. And as far as I’m concerned, I still haven’t. You two arseholes screwed it up.” Meg shoved her spell components into her apron and gathered it in front of her. “It’s no longer my responsibility. But I’ll see if I can force it to sustain you anyway.” 

“Meg—” 

She huffed and yanked the door open, slamming it behind herself, leaving Sam alone. 

He laid back and looked at the ceiling, feeling weak and tired and a little nauseous. The way he’d felt the past few days was nothing short of incredible when he considered the long months of illness that preceded them. And he’d ruined it by letting this happen. He should never have left Gadreel alone, not after his countrymen arrived. 

Sam rolled onto his side and covered his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean gave himself a moment of standing stock-still before entering the kitchens. When he finally rounded the corner, Ellen Harvelle gave him a knowing look that, for once, wasn’t snide or teasing. 

“Can I get a cup of tea?” Dean asked, standing awkwardly. In her space, he didn’t know what to do with his limbs, feeling out of place in his own house.   

“Sit down before you trip over something.” She pulled down a clay cup and spun to fill it with hot water and a spoonful of dry leaves. 

Dean stared at the cup in front of him, thinking about how he should get back upstairs to Castiel, or look in on Sam and Meg, or go to see that the Athean refugees were taking their leave in an orderly fashion. Instead, he sat in silence and rested his forehead on his hands while the tea steeped. 

Ellen treated him with silence, working furiously at the kitchen’s prep work, until eventually Dean reached across her table to pick up a few carrots to slice with the knife he kept in his belt.

“I appreciate you lending a hand, but chop those finely,” Ellen gestured with her elbow, both hands busy.

“Where’s your… um.” Dean could remember someone in the kitchens with Ellen, but her name utterly escaped him.

“Naomi. She left as soon as the refugees arrived.” Ellen didn’t look away from what she was chopping.

“Oh.” He blinked. “She didn’t seem like the type to shirk the extra load.” 

“Something about a sick relative.”

Dean sighed and nodded. “The refugees from Athos are leaving soon.”

“Things will be back to normal, then.” 

“Sure, as normal as normal gets.” Dean kept chopping, glancing as Adam filed past with Gadreel, who met his eyes with obvious fear in his expression.

The prince just kept chopping Ellen’s carrots.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gadreel kept his eyes down when Adam walked him through the halls and kitchen, surveying the near-constant smear of blood that he assumed was his own. Dean was sitting on the other side of the room near the stove, having a hushed conversation with Ellen, the cook. He was quietly appreciative that Adam’s hand on his arm wasn’t tight or malicious. He stopped for a moment to take the key out at the door to the basement, and perhaps Gadreel could have run, but he was probably still linked to the prince and if a guard killed him in his escape, that would hurt Sam. Or kill him. 

The basement smelled of blood now and the cold air made Gadreel hesitate. Adam pushed him down the steps in front of him a little quicker than perhaps was wise, before yanking his arm, which sent a bolt of pain up his shoulder—he immediately followed Adam’s direction, trying not to cry out.

Sam would be unbound from him soon and he wouldn’t have to worry how much harm he caused the prince. Gadreel stood still when Adam shoved him into a clean cell that faced the one he’d been in earlier. 

Adam didn’t just slam the door and lock him in, but stood there as if he was considering something. Gadreel had his back to the wall without realizing that he’d taken a step backwards. Adam tilted his head, probably having no earthly idea that Gadreel’s heart was fluttering nervously.

“Do you think that Dean will have you executed?” 

Gadreel nodded.

“Would you be willing to die in a much more heroic fashion?” 

Gadreel knew Adam despised him, and his eyes wouldn’t quite meet his, even though his question had weight.

When he didn’t immediately reply, Adam slammed the cell closed, and walked away.

Gadreel slowly slid down to sit on the floor. 

The sounds of footsteps leaving were even fainter as they traveled upstairs, muffled through a layer of stone vaulting, then simply fading away.

In the dark, the man in one of the other cells began speaking, and for a terrible moment, Gadreel mistook his words for his own thoughts. 

“There goes a lad with a heart full of snakes.” 

Gadreel wished for a blanket. “Please don’t speak to me,” he muttered quietly, knowing how his words would carry in the hollow, stone room.

“I’m not speaking to you, I’m ruminating on my observations. If your ears happen to be open, that’s none of my concern.” 

Gadreel sighed and let his head fall back against the stones. 

“When I return to my rightful kingdom I won’t allow this sort of sloppy… out-of-ranks willful fraternization. Imagine, a prince of any other kingdom on this earth keeping a king of a neighboring kingdom in the fucking basement for seven godforsaken months. And then what do they bring me? A milktoast that couldn’t get away after ONE SIMPLE ASSASSINATION.”

There was a pregnant pause, as though the speaker waited for some sort of reply. Gadreel shut his eyes so that he could pretend that the darkness beyond his eyelids was simply natural and not the deep darkness of the dungeon.

“There’s an old tale, older than myself, even, about a snake and an old woman. Sometimes it’s a scorpion and a frog, but never mind that. An old woman finds a wounded viper and she says to it  _ ‘I shall show my virtue and obvious charity by helping this vile creature,’  _ and takes it home in her little basket and nurses the poor creature on milk and honey. 

“But, you can always rely on things to behave within their nature. So when she picked the viper up on a perfectly ordinary day, and it bit her and she lay dying… well, she was an ignorant, old crone, and of course she asked it  _ why. _ And because this is a fairy tale, because it is both true and a supreme falsehood, the viper could speak. And it said:  _ ‘Old woman, you knew that I was a snake when you picked me up.’ _ ” 

“Be quiet.” Gadreel said, hands holding his knees. The man in the other cell shouldn’t know anything of Gadreel or his character, but Gadreel felt that it might be written on his face, his skin. 

Crowley just laughed.

 

* * *

 

 

Meg slid back into Sam’s room more than a few hours after she’d left, finding the prince sitting up and reading, eyes half-closed and obviously drowsy.  She squared her shoulders and set her knife down behind her, on Sam’s desk. 

“Give me your hand.” She sighed a little. Maybe this would prolong her life here in relative safety, perhaps not. 

The prince stood and slowly drew closer to the table, extending his hand with a sensible amount of hesitation.

“I can’t solve what you’ve done with the seventh son, but I can do something about the distance.” 

Sam’s fingers twitched. “Are you making the bond stronger?” 

“Yes.” Meg stared upwards at him, lips curled in what she figured was a semi-reassuring smile.

He took his hand back. “No. Bind me to someone else. To Adam, or Jo, or Charlie.” 

She shook her head. “It’s not possible. The sum makes a whole, Sam. I can’t link another.” 

Sam paced around the table. “What if we can never be unbound, then?” 

“Sam, you can’t be unbound now,” she countered. “I’m trying to make your condition more bearable.” 

“My condition,” he scoffed.

“Sam, why did you stop before you could close the wall?”  

The prince avoided her gaze and took a deep breath. When he shrugged a little, Meg huffed and dropped into his chair. 

“I stopped it because I knew that… even if we solved the problem and sealed the realm—even if it held, it would only protect us from that one danger.”

“Yes, and you boys always have wolves at the door. Almost like you’re cursed.” Meg smirked a little more than usual—she seldom stopped entirely, it was part of her charm.

“Yeah.”  He brushed his hair behind his ears. “You can go now.” 

“And leave you here to waste away? Please, don’t write me into one of your sonnets.” 

“I don’t write sonnets,” Sam scoffed and looked out the window. “I don’t… It was ten years ago.” 

She shook her head and drew the knife across Sam’s desk, slicing into the hard wooden top.

“Hey, what—don’t!” Sam stared at her, aghast.

“I said I’d help, and I’m helping. If you want to feel horrid and sick, you can just leave the room and moan in the hallway.” She carved a long curve around the side from one end of the line to the other, then drew some geometric shapes as well as a few between the half-oval and the line. “I won’t even tell Dean about you kissing the great big liar.”

“Please don’t act as if you’re doing me a favor.” 

“Don’t worry, Sam. We’re still not friends. I’m a witch, remember?” Meg sighed and stood up to leave, watching Sam’s features as the link set to work and strengthened. It would endure for however long she needed to work around the binding spell, although now that she’d done two minutes of soul-searching in her tower, she doubted she would stay to see it through.

* * *

 

 

 

The carts of people were pulled by their horses—not donations from their stable, but the old nags they’d arrived with. The small town that lay abandoned would perhaps accommodate them, further away from the border. Adam watched them organize from the wall, jaw set at the sight of a few intact families of commoners that had managed to keep their meager belongings. 

It was surely to be a hard winter, but they would survive it if they had shelter. 

It wasn’t until the sun was on the horizon that they left. Adam thought that they should have waited until morning, but the murdered man was wrapped in a shroud inside one of their carts to be buried elsewhere, an impetus to leave quickly.

It was a weight off his conscience that they were gone. The appearance of civilians just muddied the issues at hand between their kingdom and the tricky relations with the factions to the east, in Athos. 

When it was dark, Adam slowly walked down to the stables and saddled his horse himself, quietly refusing the stableboy with a head-shake, packing a few days’ hard rations in his bag. 

Dean was, quite obviously, not willing to deal with things outside their walls—and understandably so, considering the rumor that Castiel was dying. Sam was benched until he could stand up and hold his own again. 

The time for cajoling his brothers into a decision was at an end. He needed to take this into his own hands before it was too late.

Adam’s hands passed over the lengths of rope wound together in little coils, selected one that he thought would do, and went to collect Gadreel for the long journey. 

 


End file.
